


Time Flies (When You're Having Fun)

by Mussimm



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Big Puffy Dresses, But Aziraphale Is Presenting Femme, He/Him Pronouns For The Boys, Masquerade Ball, Oh no they're stuck at a sexy party and their actions don't have consequences, Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Snogging, Time Loop, historical accuracy? i don't know her, how ever will they spend their time, lots of smooching, pre-revolutionary France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mussimm/pseuds/Mussimm
Summary: Versailles, 1769 - Aziraphale has a blessing to perform at a masquerade ball and it's important that he gets this one right. So important, in fact, that he can't seem to leave until he does.But with a fancy dress, an attentive demon and an endless supply of champagne, it's a little challenging to stay on mission.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 337
Kudos: 970
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeloop AU for the Good AUmens Fest. 
> 
> Beta by the inimitable [darcylindbergh.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/pseuds/darcylindbergh)

* * *

Versailles - 1769

* * *

The clock strikes eight in the foyer of the Petit Trianon, a merry chime ringing around the chateau. Aziraphale adjusts his mask, sure the fine gold filigree is leaving pink marks on his cheeks. He smooths down his skirts, the cloud of white silk sways and bobs as he takes the steps into the party.

A string quintet is playing next to a fountain of champagne. The cellist loses his place as a lady brushes by too close, one long, low note going squeaky as her pannier knocks at his elbow. People swirl around, laughing and chatting, lovely, lively masked faces everywhere. 

One unfortunate woman loses the battle with her clothing and goes down in a puff of blue feathers to the titters of those around her. Aziraphale offers a wince of sympathy in her general direction, careful of his own beaded slippers on the smooth floor. 

A tray of champagne materialises by his side, a handsome waiter smiling politely. 

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale breathes as he takes a glass. 

The music plays on, the handsome waiter disappears, the people laugh, the dresses swirl, and Aziraphale wonders how he is supposed to find a single person, even the hostess, in all this. After coming all this way he isn’t even sure what’s socially polite at this stage, it isn’t as though he attends a great many parties. The champagne is good, though. 

Aziraphale has just resolved to try walking about and seeing what he can find when a sliver of black catches his eye among the pastels. 

He can’t help the smile, it seems to spring onto his face of its own accord. Because he’s lost in this overcrowded maze, maybe, or because it’s been a few decades, or because it’s nicer to drink when in company. Crowley looks uncommonly good in his court fashions, his black velvet coat trimmed in gold thread, his hair worn long and curled rakishly, and his sunglasses traded for a black mask. But there’s something else about him, his posture, his expression, something that brings up a bubble of warmth in Aziraphale that he hurriedly stuffs back where it belongs. 

Crowley looks up, as if sensing eyes on him. They meet eyes for a moment, then Crowley’s gaze turns heavy, surprised as he rakes his eyes up and down Aziraphale, taking him in from the top of his curled hair to the toes of his slippers. Aziraphale can’t help but hope Crowley has a little bubble of his own to stuff down. He knows what this dress does for his complexion. And his cleavage. 

Crowley saunters toward him and Aziraphale takes a sip of his champagne, waiting for the demon to cast a wide circle about him, skirting the edges of his gown. 

“Aziraphale, love the dress,” Crowley says, and the little bubble threatens to bob back up to the surface. “Dare I say it was made this decade?”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale says. “These people care about that sort of thing.”

“I’m not complaining.” Crowley takes his hand, like a proper French gentleman, and Aziraphale barely has time to register the thin fingers under his own before a kiss is pressed against his knuckles. Unguarded yellow eyes are on him and his insides fizz like champagne. He’s helpless against the blush that mottles his face. The scandalous, fashionable neckline he sports had looked so pretty in the mirror at home. Now it does nothing to hide how the blush spreads down his chest. 

He extracts his hand as quickly as polite and clears his throat. “Ah, yes, well. What are you doing here, anyway? These people have quite enough troubles, I’m sure.”

“Me? Nothing. In Versailles I can just sit around and watch the commendations roll in while drunk on good cognac. What about you? Come to turn this lot into pillars of salt?”

“Oh, they’re not so bad, surely.”

“They’re worse. Sodom’s got nothing on Versailles.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale chirps, straightening his shoulders. “Aren’t you usually the one to argue for mercy over floods?”

Crowley gives him a sarcastic little pout for his troubles, and oh, he ought to wear masks at all times. Even if the devil horns that fork into his hair are a little on the nose. “So what’s the plan, then? They’re already blessed as anything.”

“The king is a bit…”

“Stupid?”

“...changeable,” Aziraphale shoots him a chiding glance. “But I’ve heard Madame du Barry has a lot of influence over him.”

“An angel in Versailles, trying to catch the ear of the king’s official mistress,” Crowley rolls the words around like he’s mulling them over. “Someone’s having you on, angel. Gabriel just wanted to see you dressed up like a rococo wedding cake.”

“You said you liked the dress.”

“I do. Prettiest wedding cake in the chateau.”

“I’m perfectly capable of influencing the French court.”

“You don’t speak French.”

“I am _learning_ French.” 

Crowley’s smiling. He’s smiling, and there’s nothing snide or teasing about it. Aziraphale’s stomach does a somersault, he hasn’t seen that smile for an age, an eon. It sits so openly, so honestly on Crowley’s face, a big, relaxed smile that speaks a thousand words that he _shouldn’t be saying_. All the bickering dies on Aziraphale’s tongue as he tries to decide if he should return that smile, let his heart sit out all open and exposed, or drop his voice to a hiss and remind this silly devil what’s at stake if they’re caught in each others’ company.

He does neither, it turns out, as Crowley takes his hand again, fingertip to fingertip as is the style. His hand goes against his will, held delicately aloft, the smallest point of contact that’s not helping at all with the fizzing on his insides. 

“There’s a tower of oysters in the salon that needs my wiles. Care to thwart me?”

Aziraphale is still flushed, his heart still beats restlessly. “I have to find Madame du Barry.”

“She’ll be fashionably late.” Crowley is already leading him through the chateau and his feet are following, beaded slippers tapping away on the parquet - _tick, tick, tick_ \- like the ticking of an offbeat clock. He is twirled through the crowd, sidestepping and turning as he and all the others navigate their wide-hipped dresses around each other. 

Something is off. Not off, different. It’s been thirty years since they last saw each other, since Aziraphale lost the coin toss and witnessed the sack of Delhi, four years before that and ten before that and again and again since the beginning. It’s always a relief, a drink of water in the desert, but tonight Crowley’s smiles are too easy, his eyes too bright, he lingers openly on Aziraphale’s face whenever their eyes meet. Something is sitting differently and why does it feel so much like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place? 

The oyster tower is a true tower, the centrepiece of a table laden with delights. An army of the chefs must have worked on them, works of art as much as food, piles on piles, horns of plenty. Crowley’s Sodom argument looks better in this light - the people on the street can’t afford to buy bread, they dress their children in flour sacks. But there’s little use in playing the monk tonight, he’s here to influence policy, not waste food. 

Crowley takes an oyster from the icy tower, sprinkles it with a vinegar swimming in herbs and truffles. He considers the delicacy in his hand, the little grey shell that shines mother-of-pearl in the candlelight, and his eyes flick to Aziraphale’s lips. For a heartstopping second Aziraphale thinks Crowley will feed it to him, raise it to his lips and… but the moment is gone so swiftly that Aziraphale wonders if it was there at all, and the oyster is in his own hands, waiting to be devoured. 

They find a quiet corner, a chaise longue where Aziraphale’s skirts can spread and he can sit without anything poking him in the ribs. The mood is begging for scandal as people mill about, painted eyes flashing behind masks. They don't give anonymity but provide enough of a veneer to loosen tongues and allow hands to wander. Aziraphale doesn’t know which of the aristocrats are flirting with their own wives and which are straying. 

His eyes keep jumping to a woman in pale green, whose tall, beautiful hair sways close to an open flame whenever she laughs. He tenses every time he hears her voice rising. 

“Relax, angel,” Crowley says, following his eyes. “She’s got plenty of chivalrous gentlemen to put her out if she catches.”

“Oh, but her hair is so lovely, I hope nothing happens.”

Crowley regards him with a fond smile, examining his hair. “You like the style, do you?”

“Of course, it’s so… expressive.” Aziraphale sketches the shape of his hair with his free hand, not daring to touch lest he disturb the delicate miracle of it. It’s a charming thing, women of all stations weaving whatever takes their fancy into their hair. He’s done his up with pearls and white feathers and adored the results in the mirror. But now, with Crowley’s eyes on him he wishes he hadn’t been so conservative, had left a few locks to curl down his neck in the way that so flatters some of the women in the salon. 

“ _So_ expressive,” Crowley parrots with a hint of amusement. “Only catches on fire sometimes.”

“Your work, then?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley gives a mock bow. “Maybe the only dastardly thing I’ve done in this city. Every time I go to tempt someone they’ve already done the bad thing and then worse just to prove a point.”

“You poor dear.”

“I am a poor dear, thank you.”

“Do you think somewhere there’s an equal opposite to this? Where I can sit about drinking because they’re far more saintly than I?” Aziraphale muses, thinking of all the trouble the monks got up to in the monasteries. 

“Doubt they’d have anything to drink there. How’s England treating you, anyway?”

Aziraphale leans forward with a smile, closing the distance to whisper his plans with his co-conspirator. “I’m thinking of opening a bookshop.”

Crowley’s eyebrow springs up. “A bookshop?”

“Can’t you imagine it? My collection all on display.” He spreads his hands out with a happy little wiggle, imagining the grand bookshelves where everything can be catalogued and organised.

“You’re going to let humans buy your books. And then own them. Instead of you.”

Alright, it’s not a perfect plan. He drops back in his seat, no longer feeling very conspiratorial. “Maybe. One or two can’t hurt. If they’re going to people who would appreciate them.”

He ought to be put out, miffed at the dismissal of the plan he’s been working on for some years now, but Crowley’s smile is so warm, so fond, so familiar that instead he finds himself laughing and accepting another oyster. 

They trade food and stories and Aziraphale feels it all slip away, the walls he builds up for the archangels who patronise him and the humans he has to patronise in turn. His mouth runs away with him and he doesn’t think, he talks, tells Crowley everything that’s happened in the last thirty years. The good, the bad, the silly, it tumbles off his tongue and he’s laughing, he’s drinking champagne and inside he’s bubbling, fizzing, flowing over. 

Crowley introduces him to a few acquaintances as _Mademoiselle Fell, his English friend_ and they trade frivolous gossip, largely at the expense of Madame Aubry whose feathery fall Aziraphale had witnessed. But soon enough they’re alone again and Crowley is smiling and Aziraphale is laughing and the party only exists reflected in citrine eyes. 

“I can get one more,” Crowley says, aiming to throw a little paper fancy at the nearest lady, who has yet to notice several new decorations in her hair. 

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale scolds, but he’s laughing, he can’t help himself. “You’re five thousand, seven hundred years old, you’re above this.”

Crowley flicks the little thing, landing it squarely in the middle of the lady’s fanciful headdress, snagged on one of the feathers. She looks perturbed, as though she’s not sure if she felt something or not. Aziraphale bites down on his laugh and hides his face in one hand, sure that two timeless beings of the highest and deepest extremes of the universe are about to be publicly scolded by an eighteen-year-old in a flouncy dress. But then she brightens again, dismissing it, and Aziraphale catches Crowley’s wrist before he can attempt another. 

Crowley comes to him, leaning into his touch, his arm surrendered in Aziraphale’s grasp. There’s a tenderness to his eyes that makes Aziraphale ache. 

Aziraphale can hide a great many things from himself, but this isn’t one of them. He _knows_. He sees his own heart, sees it reflected back at him in terrifying intensity whenever Crowley meets his gaze. He sees it now, feels it in the pulse-point he’s so thoughtlessly caught in his hand. It feels impossibly good to be so open, to have Crowley so open for him in return, but he isn’t allowed impossibly good. There are rules, there are consequences.

They can’t do this. It’s all very well to meet up to exchange notes, harmless meetings that can be disguised as negotiations. Sometimes it’s alright to relax together. But they can’t do this.

Crowley knows that, Aziraphale reassures himself. Crowley knows they can’t, he’s never crossed the line. He’s surely got more to fear from Hell than Aziraphale has from Heaven. He is the one who reached out and touched, he’s the one whose hand is burning, feeling the fine bones of Crowley’s wrist under the velvet, the heat of another body. 

“I think I’d like to see the dancing,” Aziraphale says, his hand still full of demon, his skin still stinging with it. 

Crowley slides to his feet without a word, his arm slipping through Aziraphale’s grasp until they’re holding hands in a more socially acceptable way. He pulls Aziraphale to his feet in a cloud of silk. 

Crowley’s eyes are on him. They walk through the crowd, ignored, and Crowley’s eyes are on him. His face is unreadable. 

The ballroom is as grand as anything they’d made in Rome, an intricate puzzle of plaster mouldings, paintings, chandeliers and parquetry. A little gasp escapes his lips at the sight. Couples swirl around the floor, elaborate dresses turned into silk roses as their skirts flare and roll. The move with a grace and a practice he could never hope to mimic. The musicians are half an orchestra now and they’re playing something he hasn’t heard before, whatever composer is fashionable in the salons of the Enlightenment. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, watching, staring, enchanted by the sight of it. 

“Clever things, aren’t they?” Crowley says. They stand in silence at the edge of the ballroom, taking it all in, and after a few minutes Crowley nudges him. “Want to give it a go?”

“I can’t dance. _You_ can’t dance.”

“I dance,” Crowley says, affronted. 

“I didn’t say you don’t, I said you can’t.” 

Crowley’s wide eyed, astonished outrage is enough that Aziraphale has to swallow down a peel of laughter, instead jutting out his chin and raising an eyebrow. Crowley splutters and Aziraphale’s heart twists about in his chest. 

Then the hand in his is no longer a polite touch, it clamps down and he’s being nothing short of _dragged_ toward the terrace. Crowley guides him outside, still muttering under his breath about snitty angels when they burst into the cool night air. 

There are stars, more than Aziraphale could count in a century, a blanket of sparkling silver above them, and the gardens spread out below. Torchlight leads tittering couples to secret assignations in the hedge maze, and Crowley leads Aziraphale, pulling him along, far from the prying eyes of the court, laughter and insult warring on his face. 

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asks. “I was watching the dancing.”

Crowley pulls them to a stop when they’re in the maze, a fountain trickling beside them, gravel underfoot. Aziraphale stops short of running into his chest. They’re close here, under the stars, wine-drunk and flushed from warmth and happiness. Amber eyes stare down at him, that devilish mask still hiding half of Crowley’s face, doing nothing to hide the smile that threatens to twice the corner of his lip, that dances in his gaze. 

“I’m going to teach you how to dance.”

Air is suddenly hard to come by. “You can’t dance.”

Crowley’s hand is in his, another burning hot on his waist. He feels it through the dress, the light pressure of Crowley’s thumb pushing down on the boning of his corset, lighting him up from breast to hip. There’s hot breath against his ear, there’s jewel-set eyes burning in his vision, and a voice made of smoke and sulfur murmuring so close to his skin he can feel it. “Prove it.”

Aziraphale is frozen, time has stopped around him, crystallising this moment for him. He’s in Crowley’s arms, under the starry sky, and his hands are moving on their own, to shift up to the demon’s shoulder, to squeeze the hand in his, his body encouraging what his mind refuses to process. 

Then time snaps back into place and he’s laughing again. Giggling, really. They’re both too tipsy for this, even if either of them had any talent. Crowley sways him back and forth, they tread on each others’ toes as he insists, “This one is easy. Just one, two, three, one, two, three.” And their hands are warm together, their breath mists in the cool air, intermingling and surrounding them. 

Aziraphale’s smile could light up the gardens by itself, he’s sure. His cheeks hurt from smiling so widely, his halo must be peeking through, his wings, his heart. 

Crowley’s smile has turned painful, something awful and vulnerable on his face, something as large as whatever is about to bubble over inside Aziraphale.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Crowley says. 

The bubble inside him bursts, fizzing through his veins as delight, and as dismay. “You can’t say that.”

“I missed you,” Crowley says, raw and open, like he’s been missing him for thirty years. 

“You _can’t_ say that,” Aziraphale presses, he tries so desperately to sound like he means it. But the starlight is in Crowley’s hair, in his eyes, and the party is so far away, and the arms around him are so warm. 

Crowley kisses him. He swoops in, their bodies press together hip to shoulder and they’re kissing. His mouth is warm and wet, he tastes like oysters and champagne, and after more than five thousand years they’re kissing. Aziraphale falls forward with a moan, parting his lips to let Crowley’s tongue into his mouth, millennia of wanting distilled into this frantic moment. Crowley tightens his grip around his waist and he moans again. 

It takes a dozen perfect, beautiful, agonising seconds for Aziraphale to remember there’s a reason they’ve never done this before. 

He tears out of Crowley’s arms, putting distance between them more quickly than he thought he could. He gasps for breath. “What are you doing? What am _I_ doing?”

“You know what we’re doing,” Crowley murmurs. 

“Have you lost your mind? We’ll both be killed.” Aziraphale squeezes his hands together, trying to banish the feel of body-warmed velvet under them. He can do nothing about the other ghosts, Crowley’s hands, his hip, his mouth. 

“We won’t,” Crowley growls. “No one’s watching. Don’t you get it, yet? No one’s watching.”

Aziraphale casts his eyes to Heaven, not sure if he fears God more, or Gabriel. “They’re watching.”

“No, they’re not.” Crowley flings out an arm, gesturing broadly at Versailles. Whatever composure he’d been keeping has fallen apart, his lips parted, eyes glassy. He tears off his mask and Aziraphale doesn’t know why that’s the thing that nearly breaks him. “No one’s here, angel, it’s you and me!”

“You and _I._ ” 

“Don’t, angel, just don’t. You’ve no idea about these people. You’ve no idea. If your side cared this place would be a crater in the ground by now and if my side cared we’d have a new headquarters!”

Aziraphale’s lips are burning, he can still taste Crowley in his mouth. And he can see, he can see this place is under Crowley’s skin. He’s been here too long, he’s seen too much. “It isn’t that simple, Crowley.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t! Even if they’re not watching us right this second we can’t just… You _know_ we can’t.”

“Tell me why!”

“Because I’m an angel!” He shouldn’t say it. He hates that Crowley is making him say it. “And you’re a demon.”

“And what?” Crowley asks, desperate. “I’ll sully you? Make you dirty? Is that what you’re saying?”

The conversation is spiralling out of his control, he knows that. Crowley is hurt, not listening, ready to lash out. If he moves fast he might fix this, or ruin it further. If he can talk fast enough he won’t think of Crowley’s hand pressing against the boning of his corset, he won’t think of that fine, dark stubble scraping against his chin. 

_I love you,_ he might say, _my dearest friend,_ _I treasure you above all else._

“Please don’t put words in my mouth,” he says instead. “I think you need to take some time to cool down, and once you’ve done that you’ll agree with me.”

“Oh, oh, I’m too emotional, now?”

“Yes!”

Crowley stalks close, looming over Aziraphale and hovering inches from his face. “You liked it.”

_Of course I did, you idiot._ Aziraphale grabs great handfuls of his skirt, keeping it away from his shoes. “I’m leaving. If you want to get killed you can do it by yourself.”

“Fine,” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale shrugs, knowing it’s overdramatic. “Fine.”

“Fine!” Crowley yells after him, but he’s already retreating. His skirts are in his hands and his slippers are firm against the gravel. The night air is almost cool enough to bring his temperature back to normal. 

He’s kissed Crowley, he realises, spinning and swishing and working his way back into the chateau. Crowley kissed him. And he returned it. And it was marvelous. 

Five thousand years and change he has staunchly refused to wonder what it might be like and now he doesn’t know how he can forget. It’s Pandora’s box they’ve opened, he won’t be able to stuff this back in. 

He’s breathing hard by the time he finds himself suitably lost in the crowd, and the talk is too loud, the music plays out of key, he’s bombarded on all sides by strong perfume and feathers that flick at his face and people jostling past his ridiculous skirts. 

The clock strikes, the bells chime and he looks up to see it’s midnight. He hasn’t even tried to talk to Madame du Barry.

The party stills, slows, muffles itself and for a moment he’s alone in the halls.

He hears a voice, an ancient voice, a voice he hasn’t heard in a long time. 

_Hmm, let’s try that again._

Aziraphale is standing in the foyer, and the clock strikes eight. 


	2. Chapter 2

The clock strikes eight and Aziraphale hears it through a fog. His skirts fluff around him, ruffled by the gentle breeze from the door. He absently adjusts his mask, sure it’s leaving pink marks on his skin. 

The party starts over. Like it never happened in the first place. Three thoughts form in Aziraphale’s head, tripping over each other for his attention, little snatches he can’t focus on. 

The cellist strikes an off note. One: God is watching. God just watched him ignore his mission to have a romantic evening with a demon. 

Madame Aubry goes down in a puff of feathers. Two: Crowley is struggling, he’s disillusioned and likely to do something very stupid. 

A waiter appears by his side with a handsome smile. Three: this is not the punishment he expected for getting caught with his tongue in Crowley’s mouth. 

“Champagne, Madame?” the waiter prompts, and Aziraphale realises he hasn’t moved.

“Uh, non, merci,” he says, because he knows that much French and if he starts drinking now he’s not going to stop. 

He tries to get his bearings. The party, the lovely clothes, the music that goes on and refuses to stop for just a minute to let him collect his thoughts. He has to find Madame du Barry, that’s the long and short of it, he decides. If she’s going to be late then he’ll wait. He simply cannot get distracted this time. The Almighty is unlikely to be so gentle with him a second time. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.” Crowley. The demon circles him, his hair neat and jacket straight, all trace of their drunken rendezvous gone. “You look like a lost little lamb among wolves. Love the dress.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale greets, keeps his tone even, tries not to notice Crowley’s eyes sweeping along the line of his neck, into the curls of his hair. 

Crowley takes two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and holds one out to him. The old serpent. 

“Oh, I can’t,” Aziraphale says. “I’m working. I mean it, Crowley, I’m working tonight.”

Crowley offers the glass closer, until it’s hovering under his nose. “Then blend in. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Their fingers touch as the glass changes hands and Aziraphale’s mind is out in the garden, pressed against Crowley’s chest, blood rushing in his ears. The glass slips through his fingers. It hits the floor with a delicate crash, shattering fine crystal and spilling fine champagne. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley raises an eyebrow, or at least Aziraphale thinks he does behind his mask. He must look a mess, he realises, a nervous, quivering thing, because Crowley doesn’t know it’s only been minutes since they were dancing in the gardens. 

“How about,” Crowley takes his hand, fingertip to fingertip, “we get you something to nibble on and you tell me what has you looking like a wedding cake in distress.”

Aziraphale wants to object, he can’t take the oysters again, he can’t remember the taste of them on Crowley’s tongue, but instead he follows helplessly. Crowley doesn’t lead him to the salon this time, they turn right instead of left, but it’s much the same. The hallways arch above them, people mill in pastel silks and dark velvet, the music plays on. 

“Plenty of work for you here,” Crowley says. “Are we blessing or smiting tonight?”

“I’m not smiting anyone,” Aziraphale says, drifting after him like a sleepwalker after a particularly enticing specter. “We don’t smite anymore.”

“Thought you might have broken it out again.” Crowley’s eyes are dark, he’s in trouble, he’s in pain, and Aziraphale shouldn’t get distracted but doesn’t want to leave him alone with it while he chases court intrigue. 

“I’m trying to find Madame du Barry. Once I’ve done that we can catch up.”

“King’s mistress? She’ll be…”

“Fashionably late. Yes, you’ve said. This one’s important, Crowley, I must do it and I must do it alone. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“You should.” Crowley guides him by the hand and in this skirt every movement is like a dance. They’re sharing a dance again. He sidesteps and circles until he’s facing Crowley, their hands joined at the fingertips, a grab, a clutch, a touch away from being in each other’s arms. Crowley’s eyes are soft, and beautifully exposed in the candlelight. “It’s been thirty years.”

“I know, my dear.” Aziraphale softens, because surely being a comfort isn’t so wrong. “But I’ve had word from upstairs, this isn’t something I can neglect, or pass off. I simply must find Madame du - is that a _fountain of chocolate?_ ”

Aziraphale is struck dumb momentarily, staring at the monument to hubris that he can’t quite bring himself to judge. Young, pretty people take strawberries and orange slices on silver forks and dip them in melted chocolate that tumbles down a silver fountain. A young man holds up a strawberry to his beau’s cherry-painted lips and she accepts, their hands cupped underneath to save her dress from any stray drops. They’re laughing, they’re obscene. Aziraphale is hypnotised. 

He turns to see Crowley smiling, his lovely antique smile that he seems to have brushed off just for tonight. He wants to scold the demon, to demand to know why he hadn’t been brought to see this the first time, but his irritation would make no sense and Crowley looks so pleased with himself for presenting this marvel. 

It astounds Aziraphale, as it always has, that Crowley is like this. He has been at court for months watching the vain and violent horde treasures for themselves while their people starve. He has steeped himself in the worst of humanity, and it has eaten away at his self-preservation, his good sense, his purpose. Yet given the chance he manages to alchemise all that poison into chocolate. He soothes himself not with violence or hatred, but with this kindness, this wonder that makes Aziraphale’s insides sparkle like shattered crystal. 

The king’s mistress is going to be fashionably late. There’s nothing he can do until she arrives. It can’t hurt, can it, to be a friendly ear for a little while? As long as they don’t get carried away?

“It’s a big do tonight,” Crowley says. “Chocolate fountain, lamb hunt, fireworks. Whatever French silliness your heart desires.”

Fireworks. Aziraphale darts his eyes heavenward, a quick apology, not sure exactly which part of the evening had so captivated him that he hadn’t noticed minor explosions on the premises. 

“I’m working, no French silliness for me,” Aziraphale insists, though he can’t help but edge toward the chocolate fountain. Just for a closer look. Maybe one bite. He can’t go into a night of politics on an empty stomach. 

“Whatever you say, angel.”

Somehow they’re standing at the table. It’s not just the fountain, there are mounds of fruit, oranges and pineapples that cost full pounds on their own, candies swirled in bright colours. 

There’s a tower of champagne glasses just across from them, a man who must be barely twenty stands on a wobbly chair and a champagne cork _pops_ across the room to polite cheers from the surrounds. He pours into the top glass, candlelight sparkling through the golden stream as the cup fills, then overflows and overflows as he calls for another bottle. 

“Here.” Crowley drags his attention back and Aziraphale looks up at him, devilish eyes on him, and to the strawberry on the tines of the fork that hovers between them, dripping with warm chocolate. Crowley’s hand hovers, cupped, underneath the fork as he offers it up. 

Aziraphale looks between the treat that is just within reach of his mouth and the unblinking stare of a demon far too good at his job. 

“You fiend,” he mumbles, then leans forward, taking the strawberry between his lips. He pries the fruit from the silver with his teeth and Crowley only lingers half a second longer than he needs to. It’s delicious, it’s obscene.

A drop of chocolate falls to his collarbone, he feels it warm against his skin, and then Crowley’s hands are chasing it, the rough pad of his thumb drags across Aziraphale’s décolletage and Aziraphale is overflowing like the top glass of the tower. 

“You’ve got a little…” Crowley says, trails off, his lips parted, his fingers still on Aziraphale’s skin. 

Heaven help him, it’s going wrong even faster. His face must be showing everything, he knows, his blush must be brilliant. He has a terrible feeling that Crowley can read his thoughts, knows he’s thinking about the same warm hands that linger on his skin holding him firm about the waist, kissing under the stars. 

“Monsieur Crowley!” A voice jerks them out of their trance and a glittering couple is upon them, the man in dashing blue, the woman in green with emeralds sparkling on her neck. The gentleman leans into Crowley like an old friend sharing a joke. “Comment avez vous fait pour que vos yeux ressemblent à ça?”

Crowley laughs, but it’s a tense thing. His hand recedes and Aziraphale sways with it. “Je vous assure, ils sont tous naturels.” His French is natural, practised. He turns to Aziraphale. “Monsieur and Madame Porcher, have you met Mademoiselle Fell? A friend from England.”

“Enchanté.” Monsieur Porcher takes his hand to kiss and Madame Porcher sweeps him up and down with a critical gaze. Crowley’s friends. Not friends. Fellow inmates in this gilded cage. “Now we see why he has no eyes for the women at court.”

“Oh, that’s not… We hardly know each other.”

The couple exchange an amused glance and Aziraphale realises they just witnessed Crowley hand-feeding him, so his protestations either ring false or paint him as salacious. 

“That explains his terrible manners,” Monsieur Porcher says. “He should not let a lady be at a party empty-handed.”

The man snaps his fingers at a waiter, then keeps snapping until a tray of champagne is presented. Aziraphale takes a glass in both hands and offers the waiter an embarrassed smile. 

“Did you hear about Madame Aubry?” Madame Porcher says with delighted scandal sparkling in her tone. “I hear she broke her ankle by her own shoe.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale says, a little guilty for ignoring the poor thing. “I do hope she recovers.”

The couple titter into their own glasses. “Fear not, she is surrounded by dashing gentlemen to keep her company while the barber arrives.”

Crowley is quiet and Aziraphale spares him a glance, turning away from the mesmerising glitter of emeralds. His smile is tight, his shoulders set. He hates these people, Aziraphale realises. He hates them the way you can only hate someone you know. 

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he says, searching for an out, a way to get Crowley somewhere alone, to let him vent this pressure before it comes out as something dangerous. He has a spark of indecent brilliance. “I hate to be rude, but Crowley and I were just about to find somewhere private to catch up. Would you excuse us?”

They can’t keep straight faces, twin smirks blossoming on their faces and Madame’s peacock feather fan flutters with her amusement. She seems to be holding back a laugh as she says, “Don’t let us distract you, Mademoiselle, the chateau has many dark corners.”

“Right, yes, of course. Lovely to meet you both.” 

Aziraphale takes Crowley by the wrist and pulls him away. He doesn’t know the chateau, or where he ought to go, but he navigates as best he can through the maze of skirts and statues, easily toppled glasses. He does his best until Crowley takes control, tugging him down a corridor where the crowd thins and the lights dim. 

Another corner, another twist, and they’re in a library. It’s small, nothing compared to Aziraphale’s collection, but there’s the comforting smell of old books to surround them. There are few people here and only one waiter making sure they’re all drunk. Aziraphale is dismayed but it’s privacy enough. 

These ought to be Crowley’s people, he thinks as they find a place to sit. All human souls eventually go up or down, but Crowley has a way of seeing the greatness in those that end up descending. He likes their cleverness, their passion, their imagination. He doesn’t hate people the way he hates the Porchers. They don’t make him desperate for comfort the way he is now.

Maybe if he gets it he’ll calm down. Maybe this doesn’t have to end in the gardens, in his arms or in a fight. If he can just coax Crowley into talking about what’s bothering him it might be enough, he might find some peace. 

He’s sitting close to Aziraphale, gazing at him like he’s hung the stars. “Thanks. For the rescue.”

Such a silly snake. They can’t go around saying things like that. They can’t sit face to face, far away from their duties. But he’s going to do worse if Aziraphale doesn’t stop him. He has time, and he ought to spare it. 

“Things have been difficult for you here, haven’t they?”

“Don’t get sappy on me, angel,” Crowley says. 

“I’m not sappy.”

“You’re 40% syrup.”

“If I am it’s because you keep feeding it to me.”

“It’s been thirty years.” Crowley’s voice hitches. Aziraphale looks up to meet him and there’s a pleading in his gaze. Thirty years isn’t so long, not for them, not with forever stretching out before them.

He could cup Crowley’s face in his palm right now, smooth his hand along his stubbled jawline, give a soft place to rest to an aching soul. Thirty years is not long for them, time slips around them like a running river, and that is a blessing and a curse - thirty years is not long, and a day, an hour, a minute is an eternity. Just as decades slip past with the certain knowledge they’ll meet again, the time between breakfast and lunch stretches interminable with a vacant seat at the table that will not be filled today. A single posting to Versailles can last a lifetime if it’s intolerable to man it alone. 

He cannot touch, he knows, tonight he must be the sensible one, so he folds his hands in his lap to stop them reaching out. 

“Tell me about Versailles,” he says instead, hoping to let the bubbles free before the bottle explodes. 

Crowley does. His voice is hushed and dark, his eyes glint like gemstones in the dim room, and he tells Aziraphale of all the marvels of the new world. He talks of grand balls and grander feasts, dances that take years to master, chefs who work for whole days on a single cake. The women build tiny mock villages on the edges of their estates where they can play at peasantry, lugging silver milk pails and sewing with golden thread. They’ve even found a way to spectate war, thumbing their noses at King George by shipping mountains of gold to the colonial rebels. 

As he talks his eyes slip over Aziraphale, fixating first on his own eyes, then his lips, lingering on the curve of his shoulder, the point where pale skin meets pale silk. One finger runs around the rim of his champagne glass, over and again, Aziraphale watches the fine crystal meet skin, pressing into it like corset boning. 

Crowley spins an ancient tale, the tale of Sodom, of Gomorrah, of excess unchecked. He talks like he’s forgotten to be angry about the flood. Heaven isn’t watching, in his mind, nor Hell. The territory has been ceded, Aziraphale sits in a conquered province. 

Glass after glass of champagne disappears between them, waiters move so quickly and silently that Aziraphale can’t remember their faces, he experiences his glass as neverending. He listens, he makes comforting noises, and every time Crowley’s eyes dart to his lips his own eyes dart to Crowley’s. A reflex. A memory. 

“It will all end eventually, you know,” he says. “These aren’t the first nobles to overindulge. It always ends the same way.”

Crowley traces his neckline with his eyes, swaying closer. “I’m finding myself less concerned with how things will end, lately.”

Aziraphale feels positively devoured by the gaze. He’s already flushed, his cheeks warm from too many drinks, he’s mortified that he can turn a deeper red. Crowley’s mouth is tantalising, he knows it’s one drink, one push, one offer away from meeting the swell of his breast, the demon taking his fill. 

Something in his belly is fizzing with want. He was supposed to be relieving Crowley of his burden, bringing him back to reality, but instead he’s had a tempter’s tale whispered in his ear and they’re both teetering on the brink of something very, very dangerous. 

Another faceless waiter floats by and Crowley has a strawberry in his hand, he offers it up. It’s apple red, plump and slick with a glaze that glistens like crystal. A cheeky smirk splits Crowley’s face and he snaps his fingers. The strawberry drips with melted chocolate and Aziraphale flings a hand underneath it, protecting his dress on instinct. 

They’re sitting knee to knee, barely a breath between them, hands brushing, eyes locked. The situation is precarious, the strawberry threatening to fall, the chocolate dripping warm onto Aziraphale’s palm, he darts forward, taking the fruit between his teeth. 

Juice bursts on his tongue as he bites down, the pads of Crowley’s fingers brush against his lips. He can’t break Crowley’s gaze. 

It’s all so much. Why has he done this? He’s supposed to be the sensible one. It’s impossible to extract himself at this point. His tongue darts out to catch a drop of chocolate that threatens to drip, dragging along Crowley’s fingertip. Bright yellow eyes blow black as he watches. Crowley’s fingers are between his lips and he wants to drag them in further, to lick all the sugar from his skin. 

Instead he pulls back, his cheeks burning. 

“Oh.” He studies his hand, the chocolate that’s fallen there. Crowley reaches into his pocket and produces a handkerchief, a shock of scarlet against black and white. Aziraphale sets his champagne aside and takes the favour. 

He wants to say thank you, tries to organise his tongue into words instead of helpless stutters. The words die on his tongue as Crowley studies his own sticky fingers, then sticks them in his mouth to clean them off.

Aziraphale watches him, stunned, sparkling, as his lips seal around his fingers, the same fingers that Aziraphale had just licked. It’s paralysing, hypnotising. He is helpless to do anything but watch, his chest heaving, searching for breath he doesn’t need. 

“Oh,” he breathes out again. 

Crowley studies him, his thoughts visibly whirring. He eye’s Aziraphale’s mouth, his hand, his shoulder. Aziraphale is sure they are going to kiss again, here in the library, on this sofa, and he can’t stop it. He doesn’t want to stop it. There’s light and air inside him that’s exploding. They've been dancing around this so long. He’s in conquered territory. 

When Crowley moves it’s decisive. He rises to his feet in one smooth movement, his hand extended to help Aziraphale up. “Balcony is the best view for the fireworks.”

Aziraphale swallows down his disappointment. The balcony sounds perfect all of a sudden. He needs to be outside. It’s too warm in here, he’s not thinking properly. 

He lets Crowley pull him to his feet, dizzy from the alcohol. He lets Crowley guide him down the darker hallways, the recesses of the chateau where the candles are few and the guests fewer. He clutches the handkerchief in one hand, squeezing it like it might help calm his jitters, it might absorb the bubbles in his veins. 

It feels scandalous to be so alone in the dark, feet _tick tick ticking_ on foreign floors. He fears the fireworks are a ruse, that Crowley is leading him to some private place just as he led him to the garden. He hopes the same in equal measure. They aren’t laughing this time. 

When Crowley opens a door on the upper floor to reveal a bedroom Aziraphale’s insides do something extremely complicated. He’s going to slap Crowley silly and smite him back to Hell, and he’s going to do it while desperately flattered and more than a little aroused. 

Before he can brush off his smiting skills, however, Crowley tugs him toward the balcony. “Here, we’ll be able to see it all from here. They put on a good show.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale can’t find his eloquence. He can’t decide if he’s relieved or not. This doesn’t feel like relief. He can’t seem to think straight about anything at the moment. 

The balcony looks out over the front gardens, the fountains and the cobbled driveways. A small army of servants are setting up the fireworks, a Chinese invention recently imported. The devices themselves look like oversized urns, they remind Aziraphale of the old wine amphorae from Greece and Rome. 

Crowley crowds him up against the balcony, hands on the railing, arms straddling either side of his waist without touching him. He’s pressed up against the balustrade and it would be easy to lean back against Crowley’s chest but he’s the _sensible one._ He is. He has to be, tonight of all nights. 

_What are you doing?_ he ought to ask. He ought to be affronted, or at least play at it. 

He isn’t, and he doesn’t. 

People gather below them on the steps of the chateau. Not as large a crowd as such a spectacle warrants, but with so many diversions at the party people are lost in their own worlds. No one is keeping a schedule. No one is keeping track of time. 

The red handkerchief is still in Aziraphale’s hand. He’s holding it so tightly his knuckles turn white. 

Workmen scurry across the lawn wielding torches, lighting fuses. The night air does nothing to cool Aziraphale’s fevered skin. 

“Get ready, angel,” Crowley murmurs in his ear. 

The music from inside floats out, a beautiful sonata, underscoring the chatter from the crowd below. 

The first fuse fizzes to life, shooting sparks into the starry night. 

There’s a hush of anticipation. Somewhere another champagne cork pops. Somewhere a lady shrieks with laughter. The fireworks catch. 

The urns pour over with light and heat. Gold explodes into the air, crackling and smoking, lighting up the night incandescent. It keeps erupting, reaction on reaction, they fizz and burst, showering sparks over the immaculate lawn. 

Crowley leans forward, closing the last inch between them, and his mouth is burning a line down Aziraphale’s exposed shoulder. He drops open-mouthed kisses to the skin, burning hot, and Aziraphale watches the fireworks shower gold sparks into the air, seeing it on the outside and feeling it on the inside. He’s exploding. 

Whatever he might say comes out instead as a whimper. Crowley’s hands are on his waist, his mouth relentless against the tender skin of his neck. 

Aziraphale turns in his arms, their hands, their noses seek each other, fumble for a moment, then they’re kissing. He tastes like chocolate and champagne and Aziraphale devours him. There is no pretense, this time, he opens his mouth, lets Crowley in. The night sky explodes in gold and so does Aziraphale.

Crowley clutches him close, desperate. It could be their only time, it could cost them everything - their lives, each other. It doesn’t seem to matter. Aziraphale lights up from head to toe, he can’t tell if his halo is showing, if his wings are where they’re supposed to be. Crowley’s tongue is sliding against his own and that’s its own kind of Heaven. 

It takes him too long to break away. Plausible deniability is gone. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to do now, what kind of damage control is even possible. He pushes past Crowley, away from him, gulping in breaths of cool air. 

“We can’t.”

“We can,” Crowley says, something frantic in his voice. 

“We _can’t._ ” The fireworks fizzle out and so does Aziraphale. Sense and decency descend over him like a pall. “Hell will destroy you.”

“They’ll never know.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again.”

“What do you mean, ‘again’?”

Aziraphale screws up his courage. It’s hard to say no to this, even knowing what he knows. He doesn’t want to hurt Crowley. He doesn’t want to hurt himself. “I won’t risk it. Don’t ask me to.”

“You liked it.”

“Of course I liked it, you idiot! Don’t…” His voice dies in his throat. There’s a clock in the bedroom. It can’t be right. It just can’t be. “What time is it?”

“What time is..? Don’t change the subject, Aziraphale, they won’t-”

“I have to go.” Aziraphale doesn’t wait for an answer, he’s already moving. His skirts drag along the ground and he tries to hoist them up but his hands are shaking. Crowley is left dismayed and unhappy somewhere behind him as he flees.

There’s no plan. He could try to find Madame du Barry but it’s too late, he could never complete his mission in time. He doesn’t know why he’s running. Maybe there’s a chance that God is only looking right at this last moment, that when She checks back in She’ll find him alone rather than wrapped around a demon. It’s not much of a chance, but it’s the one he’s got. 

He flies down the stairs, lost somewhere in the dark hallways, following the sounds of the party to get him back to somewhere respectable. 

In the distance the clock chimes midnight. His hair slips out of place, falling in curls down the back of his neck. 

He keeps running. The world is slowing, muffling, emptying. He’s alone in the chateau.

The clock strikes eight and he steps into the foyer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr.](https://omgmussimm.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

He’s ready this time. As ready as he can be. 

The clock strikes eight and he walks into the foyer. Time is slow and fuzzy, he knows what’s going to happen. 

The cellist strikes an off note. Aziraphale’s hand is clutching something tightly and he looks down to see the scarlet handkerchief still in his grasp, apple red against his white dress. 

Oh, that  _ snake _ . That snake with his strawberries and his lovely eyes and his… his… Aziraphale doesn’t know if there are still red marks on his neck. His skin burns.

Madame Aubrey goes down. He’s got to do something. Talking to Crowley doesn’t work, it only feeds him. God has been unimaginably forgiving to let him get away with the same sin twice. If he keeps doing this it won’t be his skin burning, it’ll be his feathers.

A handsome waiter appears at his side. He has maybe twenty seconds before Crowley notices him. 

“Non, merci,” he tells the waiter, not looking at him, scanning the room instead. 

His skirts are too wide and the room is too crowded. He can’t possibly move fast enough to escape Crowley’s notice. A bubble of laughter threatens to escape his mouth. He has never in his life wished for practical clothing, for the ability to bob and weave like some sort of athlete. 

Crowley is already sauntering toward him, a slip of black, arched darkly. Aziraphale’s eyes find the demon’s mouth and he’s transfixed. The phantom of that mouth lingers on his neck, the touch that had shot like fireworks down his spine. He knows, now, that’s how the night will end if he gives any leeway. He knows Crowley is already angling for it, is already thinking of laying clandestine kisses against his skin. He knows the heat he is inspiring in his risqué dress, the desires Crowley is nursing, how easily those desires become actions. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley greets, voice like caramel. That  _ mouth,  _ that sinful mouth. “Love the dress.”

_ I know you do.  _

“No,” Aziraphale says flatly, and starts to walk away.

Crowley follows. “No?”

“No, you’re not distracting me tonight.” It’s difficult to storm off in the press but Aziraphale does his best impression. He’s moving, at any rate. 

“That sounds very serious.” Crowley’s tone does not suggest he finds it serious.

“It  _ is _ serious. Some things are serious, Crowley. Not everything is a game.”

“You’ve been at this party for one minute, how are you already upset with me?” It’s a shock of relief to hear his voice rise in irritation, out of that dark, deep, rumbling register which sends champagne fizzing in Aziraphale’s belly. 

He thinks, as he pushes his way forward, that he might just tell Crowley what’s going on. It’s not so strange to creatures like them. Surely that would make him take it seriously, help him let go of the notion that no one is watching and their actions don’t have consequences. 

He pictures it, Crowley insisting they get a drink and find somewhere to talk privately, to strategise, to plan things out. They’ll go back to the salon, or the library, or the bedroom, and one drink will turn into three, and Crowley’s eyes will drift down to his collarbone, and  _ relax, angel, you’ve got all the time in the world.  _ And worse, he knows the argument will sound so very convincing. 

“I just can’t tonight, Crowley, I have to find Madame du Barry, Heaven is… is…” Heaven’s not watching. If Gabriel had seen what he’d been doing there would be no gentle admonishment, no second chance. “I just have to.”

As he says it he turns away, Crowley’s charms have undone him twice already, he can’t look into those eyes. In his dither he forgets himself and nearly takes out a poor waiter, hip checking the lad from a foot away before he is yanked back by strong hands on his waist. 

Oh, blast it all, Aziraphale thinks as Crowley pulls him into his chest. It’s innocent this time, he’s sure of it, a reflex. Crowley doesn’t know,  _ can’t know,  _ that they’re standing not so differently from when they were up on the balcony. 

He’s in quicksand - the harder he struggles, the quicker he’s devoured.

“Easy, angel,” Crowley murmurs. “Come on, come tell me what’s got your underthings in a twist.”

“The only thing… the  _ only  _ thing that’s upsetting me,” Aziraphale breathes out, lets his eyes drift closed for a moment, tries to drag his mind out of the last eight hours and into here and now, “Is that I have to find Madame du Barry and you are trying to distract me.”

Aziraphale steps forward, delicately, keeping his senses about him, and turns to Crowley. The open concern on his face is almost as brash, almost as bold as the easy smiles he’s trying so hard to avoid. Worry, confusion and just a hint of hurt, and he must be wondering what he’s done to sour Aziraphale’s affection for him. It must look sour, because he doesn’t know it’s quite the opposite. 

They shouldn’t be standing here, in the middle of a packed corridor, Crowley’s fingertips lingering on Aziraphale’s waist, citrine eyes bright and exposed. 

“Is Heaven watching?” Crowley says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“It doesn’t matter.” It comes out too harshly, snapped into the air. “There will be consequences if I don’t get results, Crowley.”

Crowley holds him, pinned in place by fingertips searing their way to his skin. He stares for a long time, something not unlike sympathy playing on his face. 

“Angel, she’s not here.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? They don’t come to these things themselves, they just throw big parties so the toffs can get drunk together and cackle about how rich they are. She’s in the big house getting a good night’s sleep.”

Aziraphale steps back and Crowley’s hands fall from his waist. 

That can’t be right. Crowley’s… he’s lying. Or playing some silly trick, and any moment he’ll laugh and make fun of the face Aziraphale is making. That must be it. 

And if that isn’t it, then there must be another perfectly simple explanation.

God wouldn’t send him on a wild goose chase and then refuse to let him out without the goose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head, refusing to meet Crowley’s eye. “She must be here.”

“She’s not, angel,” Crowley says. 

“She is.”

Crowley throws up his hands, casting his eyes skywards. “Why would I lie to you?”

Aziraphale stares at him, the answer to that question bubbling on his tongue. Crowley would lie to stop him interfering in the inevitable revolution that will burn this wretched place. He’d lie to get him alone, drunk on champagne and warmly full of oysters or chocolate, pliant and happy. 

He’s a demon. He’d lie. Aziraphale repeats it to himself, pretending Crowley’s face is his usual apathetic mask rather than this open, hurt, hungry thing before him. He’s a  _ demon.  _ Aziraphale hasn’t hurt his feelings, he’s a  _ demon. _

“Right, yes, of course.” Aziraphale grabs at his skirt, the scarlet handkerchief crushed between his skin and the silk. “She’s at the palace, then I should be at the palace. Simple, isn’t it? I just have to go to the palace.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley tries but he’s already drifting toward the door. His renewed purpose and clarity gives him grace, letting him skirt and dodge as he needs to in order to just get out, try again, refocus. 

He brushes past the other guests, the ushers and waiters, and through the doors. He takes a breath of the cool night air.

The clock strikes eight and he’s walking into the foyer.

Aziraphale nearly cries out from dismay. He whips around, staring out the door. He can see the driveway, the carriages that come and go, horses and footmen, the lawn where the fireworks will go. 

He tries again. There must be some mistake. It's all right there. He puffs up his chest, clutches the handkerchief tight, steels himself and steps through the door again. 

The clock strikes eight and he’s walking into the foyer. 

The sound that escapes his mouth isn’t flattering, a squeal of frustration, the anger in the pit of his stomach bursting out from behind bitten lips. Thankfully it’s drowned out by Madame Aubry. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and takes a breath through his nose. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

Crowley must be mistaken. That’s all. The woman lives here, for goodness’ sake, she must be here. If he can’t leave then she simply must be here. 

The tray of champagne appears at his side and this time he takes a glass. It’s something to do with his hands. A few measured breaths, a sip of the drink, and he calms himself. Everything’s just fine. He has infinite time to search, so it’s only a matter of finding. 

With only one small problem. 

“Aziraphale, love the dress.”

Their tiff is forgotten. Better yet, it never happened. 

Crowley is under his skin, compromising his judgement. He’s being worked into a lather from smiles and touches, and he doesn’t have to be. This is Crowley, they’ve been associates for thousands of years. He knows the steps to this dance. Crowley will let him step away to clear his head so long as he knows the music will bring them back into arm’s reach. 

Aziraphale takes a breath, calms himself, and smiles. “Thank you, my dear. I have it on good authority that I look like a rococo wedding cake.”

Crowley chuckles, offers his hand, fingertips first. “But such a pretty one.”

Aziraphale should be inured by now, he shouldn’t thrill at the touch, but he can’t help it. Crowley is so happy to see him, his smile so lovely, his touch so gentle. 

He goes to take the offered hand, but finds Crowley’s handkerchief still in his fingers. 

“Ah,” he hastily stuffs the red fabric into his panier and takes Crowley’s hand. 

The demon raises an eyebrow. “Did you pickpocket me, angel? Doesn’t seem like your style.”

“I’m a woman tonight, I ought to have some mysteries.”

He lets Crowley guide him along with a snort of laughter, to the salon, the oysters, his first and best guess at what Aziraphale would enjoy. Aziraphale accepts an oyster drizzled in vinegar, knocks it back and let’s the movement linger, feeling Crowley’s eyes on the line of his neck. 

“So what brings you to Gomorrah tonight?” Crowley asks, eyes still on his neck. He sways forward as if he might lean in and bite. 

“It’s a busy night for me, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says. He can handle this. It’s all going to be fine. “Plenty of work to do here.”

“Right, I’ll say.”

“But we should catch up, I’ll be done before the party is over. Let’s say, the terrace at midnight?”

Crowley doesn’t answer right away, his fingertips ghosting down Aziraphale’s arm, not touching but floating above by a hair’s breadth. Gooseflesh rises on Aziraphale’s arm, the hairs all standing on end. He swallows thickly. 

It doesn’t matter what he wants right now. He can have Crowley or he can do his job tonight, not both, it doesn’t work that way. As soon as Crowley’s hands are on him he’s done, he’ll stay in those arms until the clock runs out and then have to fight this battle over again. 

“Terrace at midnight,” Crowley agrees. 

“Midnight.” They lock eyes, nod, Crowley’s eyes simmer with their unspoken promise. At midnight they’ll meet away from prying eyes, at midnight he’ll have his chance to wile and tempt. If midnight comes, it might even be true. 

Aziraphale pulls away. He has work to do. 

The chateau is a maze, the crowded downstairs and the deserted upper floor, and the  _ tick, tick, tick  _ of Aziraphale’s heels follows him as he goes. 

Everywhere seems the same, a whirl of silk and feathers and gemstones that glint enticingly in the low light. It’s tightly packed, but no one seems to mind, fingertips fluttering along fine silk, bodies leaning into each other, every word spoken as a murmur against the ear. 

Young lovers feed each other beneath the chocolate fountain. Aziraphale can feel it, a strawberry pressed to his lips, hands clasped beneath, fingertips brushing. He watches the young man stick his fingers in his mouth, cleaning them off as his young friend gives him a devilish smile, and he can see the way Crowley’s fingers slipped between his lips. 

Oh, no, this will never do. 

“Have you seen Madame du Barry?” he asks anyone who looks wealthy enough to know her. 

“She is not attending tonight,  _ Madame Anglaise, _ ” say most, or profess not to know at all. Some simply stare and make him wish he spoke better French. 

The tower of champagne fills and bubbles and overflows, drunk aristocrats cheering. 

No one has seen Madame du Barry. 

A woman in seafoam green approaches him on unsteady feet. “Madame Anglaise, your hair.”

He must have spoken to her before. She reaches for him, delicate fingers fixing a pin somewhere in amongst his curls. Her fingers trail down his neck, sending shivers down his skin. Then she tugs a few locks loose right at the nape of his neck to curl there. “This is the style now. There, now you are a picture.”

“Oh, thank you,” he touches his hair delicately, trying not to upset it. “Have you seen Madame du Barry?”

She casts tipsy eyes about the room. “Somewhere, I’m sure.”

She pushes a glass of champagne into his hands and then is gone, like a drunken vision. He keeps the champagne. He might keep a few more before the night’s done. 

At the foot of the great staircase three young women are dressed as shepherdesses, holding a lamb between them. The little thing has been washed until its fleece is snow-white and cloud-fluff, with a little wreath of flowers on its head. It’s almost unbearably adorable. The three girls manhandle the poor little creature, who is taking it all in remarkably good spirits, until one of them can tie a white ribbon about its neck. 

From the ribbon hangs a ruby the size of his thumb-nail, a pendant in a fine gold setting. It must be worth as much as every carriage parked outside. 

The lamb is loosed. It scrabbles along the parquetry, the ruby around its neck catching the light as it dances with each jump. The girls shriek with laughter, and everyone is laughing, trying to catch the little thing as it dashes past, a puff of white wool shooting underneath skirts and tables. 

Most end up on their faces. People bully each other out of the way and help each other back up in equal measure. A trail of chaos follows the lamb along a corridor and out of sight, leaving behind dishevelled, flushed, laughing people. 

Aziraphale finds Madame Porcher in the parlour, leaning over a small table to whisper in a gentleman’s ear, Monsieur Porcher nowhere to be seen. 

“Madame Porcher,” he greets. “Lovely to see you.”

She stares at him, no flicker of recognition in eyes that sparkle like emeralds. “Have we met, madame?”

Oh, that’s right. He smiles. “Briefly. You know my friend, Monsieur Crowley.”

“Ah, I always knew he had an English paramour,” Madame Porcher snickers. The man beside her sets a sugar cube in a strange silver spoon and holds it over a glass of green liquor. The lady continues, “He denies it, but we women know such things, don’t we, Madame ..?”

“Uh, Fell. Mademoiselle, that is.”

“How strange that I don’t remember meeting you, perhaps I’ve had one too many. Francis, make a drink for Mademoiselle Fell. You must try this new delicacy, it’s Swiss.”

The man gives a devil’s grin and plucks a glass from the table, drizzling the contents over the silver spoon until the sugar starts to drip.

“Oh, please, don’t let me interrupt, only I’m looking for Madame du Barry.”

Madame Porcher waves her off. The lady takes the tiny glass and holds it out to her. “If she is here I haven’t seen her. It’s no night for politics, Mademoiselle Crowley, you ought to find your gentleman."

Aziraphale blushes at the name, at the implication.

Madame Porcher, for all her flaws, is beautiful. Beside the candles her eyes and her necklace and the drink she’s offering all glisten a poisonous, seductive green. 

He’s already had three or four champagnes, plus a truly excellent muscat he found in the library. He takes the drink. It’s only small and it smells divine. It tastes as good as it smells, candy and anise, it tastes like Madame Porcher looks. 

“Delicious,” Aziraphale says. The liquor hits as soon as he’s spoken and it takes willpower not to stumble.

“Isn’t it?”

As he feels the stranglehold of whatever he’s just drank he sees the matching mirrored sheen in the lady’s eyes, sees how drunk she is and how brazen as she lies back in her chair, arching her neck to show off the stretch of porcelain skin between her jaw and her neckline. Francis watches her, seemingly not noticing Aziraphale’s presence. He leans over, giggling, and with his fingertips lets a single drop of iced water fall on the exposed skin. She starts, then giggles with him as it slips between her breasts. 

“Did you hear about Madame Aubry?” she laughs. “They say she bumped her head and hasn’t left the fainting couch all night, she swears she’ll die of it.”

Aziraphale’s world has gone hazy at the corners, the room is spinning around him. He can’t remember who Madame Aubry is or why they’re being unpleasant about her. He blinks, and again, the room leaves a glowing afterimage behind his eyelids. 

“I have to… I have to find…” he stumbles over the words. 

“Go, go!” Madame Porcher shoos him away. “Go find him.”

He goes. He tries to go, he’s wobbly on his feet and he’s not quite sure who he’s supposed to be finding. He could look for Madame du Barry, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do once he has her. Whereas he definitely knows what he’ll do once he has Crowley. 

Why does he have to be as he is? The last two nights he might have stayed, his body remembers how Crowley held him tightly, hands hot, arms strong, mouth hungry. He could overflow with it, explode,  _ why _ had he turned him away? If he wasn’t so stubborn he could be with Crowley right now, they could be upstairs in one of those fancy bedrooms, naked skin on naked skin, that mouth on whatever part of him took Crowley’s fancy. 

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning. It doesn’t concede, but gentles when he opens his eyes again. The faint glow that seems to follow people as they move is only getting stronger. 

One more look, he compromises with himself, he’ll take one more look around and if it’s fruitless he’ll find Crowley and drag him upstairs to see what all the fuss is about. That thought hits him hard enough to make him see straight again. That’s what he’s feeling, he realises, for the first time. That’s what the bubbling and fizzing and sparkling inside him is. It turns out all those years he wasn’t above sexual desire, Crowley just hadn’t suggested it yet. 

Oh, he has to end this. 

He makes his way up the great staircase, heels  _ tick, tick, ticking _ as he goes, to find the upper floor as dark as he remembers. There ought to be some light up here, if the lady is home, she’d keep a candle burning, a slave waiting.

As he moves the noise of the party drifts away. The moonlit corridors shimmer, the glowing trails that float across his eyes crossing and doubling until the world is black and glowing silver. He can’t seem to walk quite straight. He shouldn’t have had that green drink. 

The halls are empty, the only sound the click of his shoes, the rustle of servants somewhere behind the scenes, the distant hum of cello music and raucous laughter. It all falls dead in the cool air. He searches for a crack of light under each door, hoping to find the one that holds his prize even as his head spins and he can’t quite remember what prize that might be. 

Crowley dragged him up this corridor, he’s sure of it, their hands locked together, sneaking into a bedroom. It’s silent now. 

No, not silent. There’s a sound, a rustle, a gasp, someone here, somewhere. 

Aziraphale catches sight of the couple as he’s almost past them, pressed in a darkened corner, in disarray, sharing smeared lipstick. The girl’s dress is shucked to her waist, her arms and shoulders exposed, the lace of her corset loosened, breasts pressed bare to her lover’s chest as he ruts against her. The boy is broad-shouldered, arms flexing as he holds her up, a riot of dark red curls falling over her skin as he mouths at her neck. 

The girl’s dark, glassy eyes fall on Aziraphale, her mouth hanging open in rapture as she pants in rhythm with her lover’s body. She doesn’t react as he goes past, he’s not sure she’s able, she’s paralysed in ecstasy. 

The afterimage stays with Aziraphale as he looks on, down the dark hallways, white and glowing behind his eyes. Their moans, their heavy breathing chases him. 

He shouldn’t even think about it. He’s seen humans have sex, it’s nothing, it’s never been anything. 

Crowley’s shoulders would move like that, is all. He’d moan like that, it would be his breath in Aziraphale’s ear. It would be Crowley’s blood red hair tumbling against his skin, Crowley’s strong hands gripping his hips. 

The world is spinning off kilter and he’s stumbling down the glowing hall, the echoes of desperate moans chasing him as he goes. He dashes around a corner and collides with a soft body.

Confused and breathless, he pulls himself off the other person, blinking until his eyes resolve the picture before him. A maid he’s knocked back, almost tumbling the poor creature to the ground. 

“Oh, oh, I’m terribly sorry, are you alright? Are you..?”

“Oui, madame,” the girl says, although she hardly looks it, staggered and askew. “Forgive me, I did not see you.”

There’s something… something he’s supposed to…

“Madame du Barry!” he cries, triumphant. “That is, is she home tonight? Do you know?”

“Non, madame, she is with the king.”

She’s not here. Aziraphale lets out a breath, a rush of air. He knows, in some distant corner of his mind, that he ought to be disappointed. But she’s not here, so his bargain with himself is ended. 

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you!”

Then he’s moving, floating, he’s dashing for the stairs, heels slipping out of his shoes in his haste. The clatter is no longer too loud on the floor, it’s music to his ears. Crowley is here. There’s nothing stopping them. 

He somehow makes it down the staircase without falling, whips around, as though Crowley will read his mind and emerge from the crowd. He catches sight of the clock. 

It’s 11.45. 

Aziraphale makes for the terrace, praying that Crowley will show up early. It’s not enough time. He can’t do all the things he wants to do, say all the things he wants to say, in fifteen minutes. His muddled brain can’t get straight even the start of it, and the chateau is even more like a maze as it whizzes around him. 

He manages to identify the towering doors that lead outside and hurries toward them. 

The night is cold, it’s always cold by this time, enough to make his breath mist. 

Crowley leans against the balustrade, tall and handsome and with those shoulders and those hands and his mouth is open in an easy smile. Sitting beside him like an obedient dog is an almost unbearably adorable lamb, flowers on its head. The ruby pendant dangles from Crowley’s fist. 

Crowley follows Aziraphale’s eyes, glancing down at his own hand. 

“Ah.” He smiles, an embarrassed, self-effacing smile. “It… I thought it would look good with your dress.”

Aziraphale is frozen on the terrace, feet refusing to move. Crowley moves, though, saunters towards him, behind him. There’s warm breath on his neck and the ghost of fingers along his skin. 

“May I?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale nods, swallows down the lump in his throat. The floor is uneven under him, the stars in the sky whirling at improbable speed. There’s no firm place to rest except the body behind him, the hands on him, the fingertips that brush along his neck, the ribbon that cinches around his throat. 

“Crowley…” The word cracks in his mouth, comes out pathetic and wanting. He turns in the demon’s arms, catching him by the wrists. 

“It’s been thirty years.” Crowley’s smile is easy, relaxed, forgetful. He’s so handsome. “How’ve you been?”

Aziraphale surges forward, kisses him, seals their mouths together.

Crowey jerks in surprise, a little  _ mmph _ hummed against Aziraphale’s mouth, but he doesn’t pull away. He pulls closer, only a moment of surprise before his hands are at Aziraphale’s waist, his lips are parting, his hips rock steadily forward. 

Aziraphale’s vision swims with the glowing ghosts of white skin under moonlight and needy gasps into night air. Crowley’s hands are on him, they’re both pushing forward. His tongue is in his demon’s mouth again, the two of them with eyes squeezed shut and deep moans punched out of their chests. 

They’re locked together under the stars, embracing, kissing (mauling) and he hears the clock strike twelve. He thought the rest of the world had dissolved. 

He knows that clock strike means something, it’s important, but Crowley is burning hot in his arms, his kisses a shock of such human vulnerability. Here they are mortal, and fragile, and real. Aziraphale is dizzy with it. He’s not sure he’ll ever come back down. 

The last of the chimes sound and they break apart, panting. Their hands linger, clenched tight at the waist, at the hip at the shoulder, like letting go will see it all disappear. Aziraphale gazes into bare yellow eyes so full of questions, so full of needs. 

Then the clock strikes eight, and he’s walking into the foyer. 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the worst sobering up Aziraphale has ever experienced. 

He’s grown used to it, after all these years, the unpleasant rush back to reality as alcohol is sucked out of his system, but this is so much worse. It’s usually just wine or whisky, the red or amber glow giving way to regular old daylight. It’s never this lurid green that so suddenly disappears, it’s never the heat of another body.

He stumbles into the party this time, the arms around his waist ripped away from him, the poison that made him brave gone just as suddenly. 

He takes a moment, like time’s still malleable, to breathe, to listen to the way his heart’s pounding in his ears. The party is a shock of gaudy, tawdry, light and colour, too strong - like sugar on his tongue, silk on his skin, fingers in his hair. He takes a moment.

He rights himself, smooths out his skirt, adjusts his mask. 

And he waits.

The cello, Madame Aubry, the handsome waiter. He accepts a glass and he waits. He catches Crowley’s eye across the room and he waits. Because what else, at this point? His mark isn’t here, his stomach is queasy from the sudden sobering up and he has no idea what to do. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley circles him, examining from all angles. Aziraphale takes a sip of his champagne, lets it bubble on his tongue, thinks about thumbs pressed into his ribs and stubble that drags along his cheek. “Did you dress to match me?”

The script is off. Crowley’s eyes are fixed on his neck and Aziraphale touches the pendant that hangs there. Ruby, like the handkerchief hidden in his pocket, like the lining of Crowley’s coat, like wine, and strawberries, and painted lips. 

His stomach clenches painfully, terribly, wonderfully as he thinks of Crowley standing on the terrace, the pendant in his hand. Shy eyes and hitching voice. Asking Aziraphale to wear his colours, even if he’d been too drunk to understand the offer at the time. 

Aziraphale wants to laugh, he wants to scream. He’s been at this party for twelve hours. Can it only be twelve hours? He’s had obscene things whispered in his ear, traced into his skin, kisses branded on his mouth. Crowley is about to start his dance of seduction over, not knowing it’s already worked. He’s been teetering on tiptoes since the first night, ready to fall. Maybe he’s been teetering for years. 

“It was a gift,” he says, fingers lingering at his throat. 

“Your suitor has good taste.”

Aziraphale laughs. It’s not an attractive sound, nervous, hysterical, but Crowley sways into him anyway. 

_He does. He has the finest taste. He wines me and dines me and kisses me under the starlight._

Crowley extends a hand, fingertips up. 

Aziraphale takes it. 

He lets himself be led forward, the twist and the sidestep, the dance of it. They’re dancing, a step Aziraphale is getting used to, the _tick tick tick_ of his heels setting the rhythm for them. He can’t look away from Crowley’s face, his eyes, his mouth, his plans so plain to see now he knows what to look for.

“So what brings you to Gomorrah tonight?” 

Aziraphale stares at his mouth, the way his lips move over the words. He’s so lovely. He’s lovelier with his bright eyes on show. He’s lovelier tonight. 

Crowley glances at him out of the corner of his eye and raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale realises he’s asked a question.

“I… don’t know,” he says, because what else?

“Just here for a bit of fun?” Crowley’s teasing him. He knows Crowley’s teasing him. He’s light, he’s happy, he’s smiling his sharpest smile, he thinks he’s free tonight and maybe… maybe he’s right. 

“What if I were?”

“Pardon?”

“What if I were just here for a bit of fun?”

They’ve arrived at the tower of oysters, the dim salon, the air full of vinegar and sea-salt. Crowley presents him with the wonder like it’s the first time, reaches out with long fingers to snag a shell from its icy bed, releases Aziraphale’s hand to sprinkle it with vinegar that swims in herbs and truffles. The low light catches on the mother-of-pearl shell, Crowley considers the little delicacy in his hand. 

His eyes flick to Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Aziraphale leans forward, parts his lips. Remembers far too late that Crowley always passes him the oyster like a gentleman. Blushes vividly. It’s too late to back out, to pretend he’s doing anything but what he’s doing, and Crowley isn’t smiling anymore. His eyes are dark, his mouth parts in a sympathetic movement, like he’s raising the shell to his own mouth instead of Aziraphale’s, like he’s the one sucking the treasure in, curling his tongue around it, swallowing it down. 

It somehow tastes better than it did last night, the night before. He ought to say something, about the flavour, the complement of the vinegar, but he doesn’t. It’s infectious, this sympathy between them, and his mouth must be as serious as Crowley’s, his eyes as dark. His stare sets off the swelling, bursting bubbles in Aziraphale’s stomach. It’s too hot in here, only he knows it’s not. 

Crowley’s hand hangs between them, frozen. 

Aziraphale’s sure his face is bright pink, the heat creeping down his neck, leaving him mottled and exposed. He’s got the script wrong. The seduction hasn’t even started yet. 

Crowley's open, hungry stare turns sharp, a smile teasing at his lips. “What sort of fun are you after, angel?”

“Oh, _you,_ ” Aziraphale huffs, breaking the eye contact like a spell, or a curse, incandescent. 

“Oh, _me?_ ”

“Yes, you.”

“Don’t act like I annoy you, I’ve got you eating out of my hand.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepens, he could swear he’s getting sunburn from it, but Crowley is laughing. He likes it, he likes _him_ and Aziraphale finds himself giggling, too, laughter bubbling out of his mouth. 

“You old snake,” he laughs. “Stop it.”

“What would you like to do, then, angel? If upstairs is giving you a night off?”

“Everything,” Aziraphale says, flushed and smiling. “I want to do everything tonight, I want to see everything Versailles has on offer.”

If he looks at it at just the right angle, it’s business. He doesn’t know what to do so he ought to spread his attention everywhere. If he twists and stretches and it catches the light just right, it’s business. 

Crowley is not seeing it from that angle. 

Aziraphale offers up his hand, watches intently as Crowley’s fingers rise to meet him, waits for the spark, skin-to-skin. Their fingers touch and even now, on night four (or is it five?) it’s still the match held to the fuse, the sparks shooting into the sky. 

“Let me see what I can do,” Crowley says. 

The night gets a bit blurry around his fourth glass of champagne. The demon escorts him from room to room, showing off the wonders he’s already seen and finding new things, in amongst it all. He’s dazzling, dark and sharp, a cutting word on his tongue, a graceful lope to his step. He talks about the music, which piece from which fashionable salon, the sugar from Saint-Domingue shaped into colourful candies, he talks about the silk and the pearls, the steps to the dances. He talks and his eyes roam without blinking, his fingertips slide against Aziraphale’s fingers, sending his skin singing, he stands far enough away to be proper but never far enough that Aziraphale can’t feel his body heat. 

Crowley drops a strawberry into his glass, insists he not fish it out until he’s done with his drink.

“They publish cartoons, you know,” Crowley lets the very tips of his fingers drag along Aziraphale’s pannier, skating along the silk. “Of these getting wider and wider until women can’t walk through doors. Say it’s a fire hazard.”

“And are you encouraging the tailors or the cartoonists?”

“Of course I am.”

Aziraphale giggles into his glass, finishing the last sip. He eagerly plucks out the strawberry, soaked, and a drop of champagne falls on his collarbone, slips down his chest and between his breasts. Crowley’s eyes follow the drop. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

Aziraphale bites into the strawberry, lets out a moan of surprise when it fizzes on his tongue. 

Crowley’s eyes are stuck on him, skipping along his neckline, his neck, settling on the ruby at his throat. It’s the eyes that do it, citrine blown to onyx, the eyes that make him bold enough to hold out the other half of the strawberry, pinched between finger and thumb. 

Crowley’s gaze snaps to his, the strawberry held between them like an apple in a garden. He holds still for a long moment, as if he’s misunderstood, before slowly, every so slowly, leaning forward. 

He catches Aziraphale by the wrist, and before his lips have even met skin the bubbling in Aziraphale’s belly is so sharp it’s almost painful. Crowley takes the strawberry between his teeth, licks it into his mouth and then, with a considered glance, sucks Aziraphale’s finger in, too, licking his skin clean. 

Aziraphale is a mess with it. It’s so much bigger than it should be, Crowley’s tongue against his skin, the heat of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his teeth. Another moan escapes his mouth before he can stop it, his knees might buckle out from under him. The fizz, the bubble, the burst, it all boils down into something hot and bright between his legs. He can’t bear to look as Crowley takes his thumb between his teeth, squeezes his thighs together and turns his face away with an embarrassing whimper. 

Crowley releases his wrist, touch lingering, and Aziraphale can look at him again. They meet eyes and he can breathe again, just barely, his ribs straining against his corset with every breath. 

The moment never quite breaks. 

Crowley kisses him under the staircase, pressing him up against the plaster roses. He tastes like strawberries and red candy, and his hands scrabble against Aziraphale’s bodice, a tantalisingly thin barrier of silk and velvet between them, and Aziraphale presses his legs together to find some relief.

The clock strikes midnight. 

The clock strikes eight. 

“Did you dress to match me?”

“Would I ever?” Aziraphale hopes he doesn’t sound as breathless as he feels. 

Crowley laughs and it’s dark and rich. 

Aziraphale’s eyes catch on Crowley’s and he’s thankful, for once, he’s glad he’s trapped here. He’s not ready for this night to end. 

They sit shoulder to shoulder at a painted table, ringed by masked faces, smiles traded between the players that might be mirth or malice or something else entirely. The dice are tossed, clatter across the wood and chip at the paint and people cheer for whatever result comes up. 

Aziraphale can’t quite tell the rules of the game but he likes how Crowley leans close to whisper in his ear, he likes how their legs press together under the table, knee to thigh. 

People gamble whole fortunes, toss purses into the centre, offer up words instead, _my Andalusian stud_ or _my orchard in Brittany_. A woman in pale pink tugs the diamond earrings from her ears and tosses them on the pile, giggling, sloshing her drink in its glass. The diamonds glitter and the dice roll and they laugh and cheer, winners and losers alike. 

Crowley laughs hardest of all and produces more gold for the pile, stacking it higher. That’s his game, Aziraphale knows, not the dice, he wants to see how much money he can get on one table at one time. 

It would be angelic to stop him but… it doesn’t count, does it? This game won’t happen, hasn’t, doesn’t. The whole wealth of France can be lost on this table tonight and it will mean nothing. And Crowley is gorgeous when he’s working his wiles. 

He drapes an arm around Aziraphale, resting on the back of his chair, his thumb idly brushing against Aziraphale’s ribs. He’s not looking, his attention on the game, the dragon’s hoard. It’s enticingly close to being cradled at the demon’s side. 

“What do you think, _mon ange_ , shall I raise the stakes?”

Madame Porcher titters behind her peacock fan. She’s been making eyes at Francis and gambling her husband’s fortune away for an hour now, in between making sport of Madame Aubry for a range of imagined afflictions. “You must let him, Mademoiselle Crowley.”

Aziraphale looks to Crowley, takes in the rakish half-smile so close he could kiss it away. “I suspect I couldn’t stop him, Madame Porcher.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow and his smile turns sly. He leans in, brings up one long-fingered hand to brush across Aziraphale’s neck, sending a shudder through him, visible enough to evoke another round of light laughter from the table. It’s a moment, the space between heartbeats, with the tip of Crowley’s nose inches from his, breath warm on his skin, fingers dragging ever so lightly against his skin, and he feels the ribbon around his throat loosen. 

Words fail him and Aziraphale can only stutter out a dismayed cry, his hands helplessly following the pendant as Crowley tosses it onto the pile. There are more giggles and he knows his objection was part of the show, his disappointment. 

“There,” Crowley says firmly, the tip of his nose grazing Aziraphale’s cheek. “Now when I win it back for you, it’ll be a gift from me.”

“You…” _Oh, you silly old snake._ Aziraphale can’t help but be charmed. 

Crowley holds up the dice in his cupped hand, offering them up. “For good luck?”

Aziraphale looks at them a moment, then leans forward, does as he’s seen the others do and blows on the dice. He doesn’t need to look to know Crowley’s eyes are transfixed by his pursed lips, the way his cleavage looks as he leans in. 

Crowley ties the ribbon around his neck later, in a quiet hallway, and when they kiss it tastes like brandy and pepper. 

The clock strikes midnight and it strikes eight. 

“Did you dress to match me?”

“When don’t I?”

They dance in the garden, wine-drunk and laughing, Crowley’s thumb against the bone of his corset, lighting him up from hip to breast. 

“It’s one, two, three, one, two - you’re not even trying!”

He’s not trying, he’s laughing so hard Crowley needs to hold him up. Their bodies are draped together, hands and arms and bellies and chin against shoulder. Crowley smells like ambergris perfume and shaving cream. When they kiss it tastes like peppermint. 

The clock strikes midnight and it strikes eight. 

The lamb runs right under Aziraphale’s skirts, sprinting out into the night air. It’s wearing pearls since no one could find the ruby it was supposed to wear. 

“Want a string of pearls, angel?”

They escape before the small mob can run right over them pursuing their quarry. 

The clock strikes midnight and it strikes eight and it strikes midnight. 

They dance, they drink, and the clock strikes. 

Aziraphale’s heels _tick tick tick_ over every inch of the chateau. The dancers twirl like oversized flowers. The musicians have been playing for an age. The clock strikes. 

Aziraphale is lying in Crowley’s lap, the two of them sprawled on a chaise longue. He’s lost track of how much they’ve drunk, but the world is pleasantly fuzzy, an oversaturated blur of colour and light. Crowley’s fingers idly trace his neckline, dragging along the skin of his shoulder, his breast, and he never wants the feeling to stop. He wants to lie here, Crowley’s belly under his cheek, fingers dancing dangerously close to something they can’t take back, until the sun burns out. And who knows? He might do just that. 

“I don’t know what She wants from me,” Aziraphale complains, leaning into Crowley’s touch. 

“When do we ever?”

“No, but… but really, this time.”

Crowley tilts his head to look at his face. “Do you need more champagne, angel, to quiet your worries?”

“I doubt it’ll quiet anything, but yes.”

Crowley’s drunk, his smile lopsided, eyes glassy. He’s smiling at Aziraphale with a softness, a fondness they’ve never dared. His thumb traces the skin of Aziraphale’s breast, slips under the fabric, both of them too drunk for intention but entranced by the intimacy of it. It bubbles under Aziraphale’s skin, a low hum that concentrates wherever his demon touches. Like a strawberry dropped in champagne, the bubbles clinging to it.

They could go that little bit further, Aziraphale thinks, hopes. They could take the tiniest step forward, Crowley’s could drop his hands, flat-palmed and grasping, Aziraphale could flick the buttons of Crowley’s waistcoat open. If it feels like this now, then what would the next step feel like? He’d explode like an urn of fireworks. 

“Monsieur Crowley,” an amused voice sings out from above them. 

It’s Madame Porcher, because of course it is. Wherever he goes Aziraphale can’t escape this odious woman. Her necklace is green like envy, and if he had none of his own he’d envy it after all this time. The emeralds, the peacock feathers, the glass cut of her jaw. 

“Hmm?” Crowley looks up through bleary eyes. “Oh. Madame Porcher, my English friend, Mademoiselle Fell.”

“Not Mademoiselle for long, I should say,” she laughs. 

Aziraphale laughs with her, he can’t help himself. He’s not sure if she’s suggesting they’ll end up in bed or end up married, but either possibility is... is… He’s so drunk. His fingers twist and clench in Crowley’s coat, trying to find purchase as he lights up all over again. What does it matter if he glows? If his halo shows? If his wings spread?

“Don’t tease her, Porcher,” Crowley scolds. “She’s a proper lady, unlike some people.”

“She looks it.”

Crowley laughs. “Leave us be, harlot. I’m sure you’ve got a twenty-something to seduce.”

“Don’t be jealous, monsieur, it’s an ill colour on you.”

Crowley’s hand continues its stroking, its petting at Aziraphale’s neckline. “And what would I have to be jealous of?”

Aziraphale’s stomach clenches because it’s no bravado, it’s no showmanship. Crowley is pleased with him, proud of him. He wouldn’t look at anyone else in the chateau and Aziraphale knows it. 

“ _Darling…_ ” he murmurs, because he can’t stop himself. 

Crowley looks down at him, fingers hovering above his jaw, his cheek, close enough to brush his face with every tremble. He says nothing, lets his thumb graze across Aziraphale’s bottom lip. Aziraphale chases the touch with his mouth. 

“Oh, please, don’t let me interrupt,” Madame Porcher says with a flutter of her fan. Her eyes sparkle emerald and her skirt sways with the tilt of her hips. 

“How is Madame Aubry?” Aziraphale asks, because he wants to see it, he wants to see the malicious gleam in her eye, he wants to remember why he doesn’t like her, he wants her to expose herself, damn herself. He wants her to _leave._

But she doesn’t. Instead of the delighted scandal that usually sweeps her face she flushes with something like shame. Her gaze skitters across the floor, hides behind her fan. 

“You’ve not heard. Are you acquainted with the lady?”

Something in her tone breaks through Aziraphale’s haze. Something’s wrong. Something’s _new._

He sits up, Crowley’s hands following him with a dissatisfied _hmmph_. It’s cold outside Crowley’s embrace. He can almost think. 

Madame Porcher sways and flutters. “Her injuries were severe, Mademoiselle, it appears she will pass.”

The gears tick over slowly in Azirahpale’s brain, fighting against the champagne and Crowley’s hands on his hips. Dead? She’s going to die? It was a fall, nothing more, a slip anyone could have suffered. Who didn’t trip over their own feet at some point? 

“Pass?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Aziraphale’s world is already spinning, and now it’s ringing, the warmth of Crowley’s body a distant memory as he puts the pieces together. Someone dies tonight, will die, has always died. 

He waits for Madame Porcher to move on.

“Do you know her?” he asks,

“Aubry? Not really. Come back here, angel.”

“Is. she… is she like them?”

“I…” Crowley flounders, hands clutching at air. “Dunno? She’s fine. Writer of some sort, in the salons. Barry likes her work.”

“Some sort? What sort?” 

“I... I dunno. Angel. Come back here.”

“Tell me, Crowley.”

Crowley slumps back against the couch, defeated. “Feminist, writes some plays, goes by the pen name Olympe de Gouge. Come back here, angel, please.”

Aziraphale laughs, because what else? 

“Oh, Crowley, I think I’m an idiot.”

He sees Madame Aubry behind his eyes a hundred times, right in front of him. He’s been dropped not ten feet from her, eight o’clock, again and again. He laughs. 

“I know you’re an idiot,” Crowley says, arms wide for him. “Now come here.”

Aziraphale goes. He pushes himself higher, so his chin rests on Crowley’s chest, so they can meet eyes and hands and lie together. 

Crowley’s wrapping arms around him like they’re lovers and he wants to stay here forever, except this time he knows he can’t. 

“Angel, what’s changed?”

Aziraphale glances at the clock. “Nothing.”

“What do you need?”

Aziraphale licks his lips, pushes himself up onto his elbows. He covers and smothers and surrounds his demon. “I need you to kiss me. For the next… twenty-three minutes.”

Crowley’s eyes are beautiful, they’re telling. The snake-slit pupils widen, the yellow gets richer, his brows pinch, his mouth falls open. Aziraphale can tell everything that’s happening in Crowley’s face, he has the practise. The disbelief, the dry mouth, the smolder in his belly and the spark in his fingertips. 

“‘Ziraphale…”

“Twenty-two minutes.”

Crowley kisses him. His arms lock like iron around his ribs, mouth hungry and open. He tastes like champagne and oysters, and he sets Aziraphale off like fireworks. He’s braced against the chaise longue, all of a sudden dealing with Crowley’s kisses, the sparks that explode along his spine, in his hips, in the delicate crook of his legs. He kisses back and moans and tries, tries his best not to fall apart with it. 

Crowley’s hands drop lower, squeezing around his waist. In this dress touch isn’t simple. The bones of his corset press against his belly, his hips, his breasts. The panniers and crinoline keep Crowley from touching anything lower than his waist, running into walls on fabric instead. 

They clutch each other, intense and frustrated, lying on that sofa, moans shared in their throats. Twenty-one minutes. 

If this is all they ever get, Aziraphale wants to remember it. If this twenty minutes has to last him for the rest of eternity he wants it to be worth it. It’s only touch, it’s just human body against human body, but that’s not what it feels like. It feels like sparkling gold fireworks on a dark night when Crowley’s hands finally move, sweeping down the plains of his body. He never knew he was so sensitive. Crowley’s chest and stomach are warm like melted chocolate under his touch. It’s like unexpectedly fizzy strawberries when Crowley’s tongue slips into his mouth. 

They lie there for an age, an eon, and era, not caring what it looks like and what others see. Aziraphale tries to memorise it, every brush of hands, every kiss, the fingers that tease curls loose from his hair and the warmth of Crowley cupping the nape of his neck. It’s a shuddering, shivering, overflowing revelation. 

Once more, just this once more, before he has to start again, do it right, be Heaven’s angel. 

It’s not enough. Crowley underneath and around him is more real and stunning and overpowering than he ever imagined, but he’s also… there’s also… there’s something else, he can’t find the words, can’t put his finger on it. He’s not used to being cherished, being held, being wanted for his company instead of his miracles. They’ve danced such a delicate dance for so long now, the idea of what they might do without oversight had been a shadow behind the curtain. Now it’s in the light he can see what a beautiful thing it is and this one night in its presence isn’t enough. 

When the clock starts to chime he cries out, the melancholy sound a hand around his throat. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Crowley’s. 

“No. I’m not ready.” He sinks his fingers into Crowley’s coat, desperate to hold onto this thing between them as it slips through his fingers. 

“Angel?”

“I’m not ready,” he pleads. 

Crowley’s kiss-swollen lips part, his brow furrows in confusion. He’s about to speak but the clock is striking midnight, their time is ending, somewhere Madame Aubry is slipping away. 

Aziraphale lunges forward, seals their mouths together, steals one last kiss. 

The clock strikes eight and he’s walking into the foyer. 

It’s somehow worse than all the other times combined, worse than the confusion of the first time, worse than the frustration of knowing he’s trapped, worse than the absinthe suddenly leaving him. 

The cellist strikes an off note. The little noise that leaves Aziraphale’s throat is _not_ a sob. It couldn’t last forever. He didn’t want it to. He was just… just drunk. 

Madame Aubry goes down in a puff of blue feathers and he sees it, really _sees_ it for the first time. 

It’s a brutally hard fall, her skull cracking against the parquet floor. She’s clutching her ribs as her friends surround her. She’s been sold to him as a wife and mother, but she’s only a teenager, a little girl in a big dress. Three older men jostle for the privilege of helping her to her feet. She stumbles as she rises, leaning heavily on the lucky gentleman. 

Aziraphale reaches out with a miracle to heal her, but before it leaves his fingers a glimmer on the ground catches his eye. 

He stands above the little thing as Madame Aubry is bustled away, still holding her side. This is it, the source of all his confusion. It doesn’t look big enough to cause such a fuss.

A gold pocket watch. Someone must have dropped it, he supposes. It’s no good now, the face all cracked and broken by a lady’s heel.

Aziraphale kneels down and picks it up, turning it over in his hands. It’s quite pretty. The filigree is not so different to Aziraphale’s mask, if far more delicate. Whoever dropped it won’t be pleased. 

So. This is… it. What he was supposed to do tonight. He can just slip it in his pocket with Crowley’s scarlet handkerchief and it won’t be there next go round, Madame Aubry won’t fall, France won’t be deprived of whatever she’s supposed to write. So he does. He slips it into his pocket and straightens. Tomorrow night she will be safe. 

He glances toward the door. That’s… that’s that, then. Outside his carriage is waiting among all the others, his horses, his footman. The girl is still injured, the loop still in effect, he can’t leave yet, but soon. He just needs to walk through that door, reset time once more and he’s free to go. 

He can leave this night behind him, forget anything ever happened. Blame it on the champagne and the oysters. 

Crowley catches his eye through the crowd. 

He’s going to turn, any second now, and walk through the door. Trigger the final reset. Snap back to reality. That’s what it is: reality. This hasn’t happened. It’s lost to time, it never occurred. 

Crowley is sauntering toward him, his drunken eyes cleared, his mussed hair styled, his trembling hands steady. 

Aziraphale can still feel him, their bodies pressed together, mouths locked, searching and loving. He can feel the shiver that runs the length of Crowley’s body when he strokes his sensitive sides, tugs at his lovely hair. 

He swallows thickly as Crowley approaches, circles. His eyes dart to the door. He’s done his job. He ought to leave. This isn’t real. 

The night outside is still young, the sky going grey to purple to black. His carriage is waiting for him. One more reset. He has the power. 

Crowley’s eyes are gorgeous in the candlelight, his lips are hypnotic, painted a dark rose. Aziraphale knows how they feel on his skin. 

It’s not real. God could be watching, She might know that he’s figured it out. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, can’t, _mustn’t_ risk it all for the chance to play act at something that’s never going to be real. They’ll never be free enough or brave enough outside these walls.

“Aziraphale. Did you dress to match me?”

Aziraphale glances to the door, his exit. He looks up at Crowley, warm and relaxed in the low light. 

He raises his hand, offering it up to the demon, fingertips first.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr.](https://omgmussimm.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

Time moves strangely, Aziraphale knows it. The clock ticks the minute past, two minutes past, by midnight it will be flying, jumping and warping. He’s on stolen time and every second has to count. 

Crowley doesn’t argue, bless his cotton socks. There are questions in him, written in the disbelieving line of his brow, in his mouth that begs to ask, but he doesn’t argue as Aziraphale tugs him by the hand toward the stairs. 

They weave through the bodies, the wide skirts, he pulls his demon in a practised  _ tick tick tick _ dance through the chateau. Crowley watches him. He doesn’t know Aziraphale is already seduced, more seduced than anyone else has ever been. He watches in confused, hopeful curiosity, goes where he’s led. When they reach the top of the grand staircase - when Aziraphale is hypnotised by his gorgeous eyes and fire red hair and tugs him close to kiss him - he grabs Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“What’s going on, angel?”

What a question. What’s going on is he’s going mad. His insides are all light and colour. Something’s fizzing under his skin, bubbling in his belly, threatening to erupt and overflow like an uncorked champagne bottle at any second. He can’t think through it, he can’t reason with it. 

“Kiss me,” he says, as the dancers step and twirl below them. “Won’t you?”

“What?”

“I know you want to, so do. I want you to.”

There’s no time to fill him in. Aziraphale could spend the next four hours explaining they’ve kissed before, that he’s spent days on chaises, under fountains, pressed against gaudy statues, Crowley tugging at his dress to get just a sliver more skin under his hands. 

Crowley watches him with wary eyes, hope and fear warring on his face. 

Aziraphale waits for him. It’s close, it’s so close to happening. Crowley’s thumbs are twitching against his bare shoulders, his lips are parted in anticipation, his body knows what his mind is still grappling with. 

“Have you been at the absinthe?” Crowley asks.

“Not yet.”

“Ate a bad oyster?”

“The best I’ve ever had.”

“Did someone mesmerise you? They’re very into that around h-”

Aziraphale lunges up on his tiptoes and kisses him. He grabs fistfuls of Crowley’s waistcoat, holds them together, kisses Crowley because he can’t think of doing anything else. He has four hours and he’ll be damned if he wastes a second. He might be damned even if he doesn’t. 

It’s a delight, the little hiss of surprise that turns into a sharp breath through his nose, the fingers that flex and curl at his shoulders but refuse to let go. 

There’s a perfect moment where Crowley’s shock-stiff body relaxes, melts against him, his hand fluttering its way up Aziraphale’s neck to cup his jaw and he’s pulling Aziraphale forward instead of holding him back. They’re kissing, again, and Aziraphale is lighting up.

An arm wraps around Aziraphale’s waist and he’s pulled closer, held fast as the hand at his face angles him just so, allowing Crowley to not just return his eagerness but overmatch it. It’s obscenely good, or maybe just obscene. 

It’s different this time, when the whole night is ahead of them and neither are pulling away. Aziraphale wants… he wants… He can’t quite find the words, the movements to go with them. The want is a chaotic, overwhelming thing that makes him sparkle under all his skin, makes him try to pull Crowley closer although they’re already flush, it pools between his legs and in his fingertips and fizzes painfully at his lips. 

It’s Crowley who breaks it, but just barely, pulling back just enough that the tips of their noses brush. He’s lovely, eyes hooded, dazed and off-kilter like a cat enjoying an ear-scratch. His breath is coming hard and Aziraphale thinks his must be as well. 

“Angel…” Crowley murmurs.

“I missed you,” he says, to make up for all the times he hasn’t. It’s only been ten minutes but it’s been thirty years. 

“I missed you, too.”

“Take me to bed,” Aziraphale says before Crowley can try to talk sense into him. “Please. Won’t you?”

Crowley licks his lips, an agonising jumble of hesitation and confusion working its way across his face but he’s already nodding. 

Aziraphale steps back, dragging a hand down Crowley’s arm and linking their fingers. He leads the way, he knows it well enough by now. Their breathing and their footsteps are too loud in the darkened hallways of the upper floor, yet Aziraphale’s heart seems loudest of all. It thumps around painfully in his chest, pounds in his ears and his hands tremble in time with it.

The nerves hit him all at once, sharpening his desire to the point of pain. He both knows and doesn’t know what he wants. There is a vast gulf in his mind between the desperate need to be closer to Crowley, the way it pools under his skin and at the base of his skull, and the  _ act _ itself. He’s seen it in its every variation, humans rubbing various bits of themselves together with different levels of enthusiasm. He’s seen the anatomy textbooks, knows the nervous system, the veins and capillaries, the inner workings. How that common, clinical thing is supposed to answer the vibrant beating of his heart and the sparks that fly about his belly he doesn’t know. They are as similar and as different as grapes are to champagne. 

He takes Crowley to the bedroom from the second - third? - night, where they’d watched the fireworks. Crowley looks as nervous as he feels, but his eyes are locked, never leaving Aziraphale’s face, open and tender and so vulnerable. 

The door clicks shut behind them and the bubbles in Aziraphale’s belly feel like they’re pressing on his lungs, his heart, everything he’s got. 

The sounds of the party are distant, a murmur they can just barely hear through the floor, music and conversation, the occasional scream of laughter. The cold, quiet night outside seems so much bigger. A snap of Crowley’s fingers and the candles flare to life, bathing them in a golden glow. 

Crowley tugs him by the hand to face him, trails gentle fingertips down his cheek. 

“You look…”

Aziraphale tries for a laugh and doesn’t quite make it. “Like a wedding cake?”

But Crowley is solemn. “Beautiful. You look beautiful tonight.”

Aziraphale releases his hand and reaches up into his own hair, finds the ribbons holding his mask in place. He tugs them free and takes the mask off, gold filigree clenched in one nervous hand as he meets Crowley’s eyes, chewing on his lip. 

Crowley sucks in a breath. There’s something urgent and terrible in his eyes as he tugs his own mask free, the two of them looking at each other for the first time in decades. 

It’s suddenly too real, too immediate, and the point of no return is somewhere far behind them. The bubbles that are expanding in his chest start busting in sharp, painful tugs at his insides. 

Thank God for Crowley, who doesn’t move too fast, but draws him in by degrees, until they’re nose to nose, and kisses him. It’s soft and languorous, and Crowley’s mouth is hot as it opens under his. It fizzes through him from head to toe, his knees turn to jelly and it’s only strong arms around him that keep him upright, Crowley taking his weight. 

“Slow, yes?” Crowley mumbles against his cheek. “Nice and slow.”

Aziraphale nods, not trusting his voice. They’re pressed together, Crowley’s hands splayed across his back, his breath blooming hot against his ear and neck, and they’re not nearly close enough. 

They trade kisses, long and indulgent, hands tangled in each other's hair, dragging it down pin by pin. Crowley can’t seem to decide where he wants his hands most, littering the carpet with pearl and feather hairpins or tugging on the fastenings of Aziraphale’s dress. Both refuse to give and soon Crowley’s smiling as he kisses him, half a laugh stolen by his panting breath. 

“How on earth…”

“You’re only on the first layer,” Aziraphale says, smiling with him. His hair gives, white curls tumbling over his shoulders, white and red curling against each other like rubies on white ribbons, strawberries between pale fingers, wine on powdered skin. 

Crowley cedes with a huff of laughter, stepping back from him to examine the front of the dress. Long fingers trace a line along the seam, finding each pearl button, and Aziraphale shivers. 

“Crowley,” he breathes, leaning into him. Crowley meets him in a kiss, flicks a button open. He’s starting to regret agreeing to keep things slow. There are so many buttons and every one sends a shock through him as it surrenders, the outermost layer of his dress loosening around him leaving him terribly, exquisitely exposed. 

He pushes Crowley’s coat off his shoulders and Crowley shucks it without hesitation, hands immediately returning to their sordid task. There’s a promise there, when they come back together. It’s torture. Crowley is gold and red and black, bathed in candlelight, his mouth wantonly smeared with their lipstick every time he sways in to claim another kiss. 

As the topmost layer of his dress falls away he lets it slip down his arms to pool on the floor.

Crowley’s slow, fingers tugging delicately at the ties of Aziraphale’s petticoats and crinoline, twisting in the laces, mouth ravenous against his shoulder and breast. It’s too much. It’s far too much. The seething inside him is simmering too slow and too sharp, his hips rolling forward of their own accord, desperate for some relief. It’s Aziraphale who’s tugging helplessly at Crowley’s waistcoat, his cravat, his shirt. 

“For goodness sake…” Aziraphale whines. “ _ Crowley… _ ”

Crowley grins against his skin, pulls him in tighter. “What would you like me to do, angel, for  _ goodness sake _ ?”

“You’re - you’re-” He can’t breathe right, Crowley’s thumbs are pressing into his ribs, his hands and his mouth playing that trick where they make all the bubbles rise to the surface, stinging Aziraphale’s skin. 

“I’m..?” Crowley needles him. He bites down again, jerks Aziraphale into him and the angel lets out a cry. 

“ _ Teasing me _ .”

The mess of petticoats and panniers succumbs, loosening from his waist and crumpling around his ankles. Crowley is finally at his stays, one hand at the laces while the other holds him tight, keeps them chest to chest, nose to nose. 

“I would never, my matryoshka.”

“Please,” Aziraphale begs, manages to pull Crowley’s shirt open, presses kisses to his bare collarbone. “Please, please.”

It’s gone on too long, there’s little dignity left in him. Nights on nights on nights. The bottle shaken to bursting while the cork is still tight. He doesn’t care if this is right or if it’s what an angel ought to do or if it’s strange and human and sweaty. 

“What if I like you like this?” The jibe rings hollow as Crowley’s fingers fumble at his laces. “All wrapped up for me like a present? In your bows and ribbons?”

“I’ll smite you, I swear I’ll smite you.” His own threat isn’t much better as he tugs Crowley’s shirt off his shoulders. If he buries his nose at the sweet spot under his jaw he can get lost in the demon’s scent, all his fancy French perfumes, and something darker, and darker still. 

He’s down to his chemise and stockings when Crowley starts walking him backwards, dancing them carefully over their fallen clothes. His knees hit the edge of the bed and he’s falling. He hits the mattress with a soft  _ fwump _ , cushioned by layers upon layers of silk and down, the rococo monstrosity of a bed rising around them as Crowley follows him. 

They’re kissing, their legs are locked and Aziraphale grinds down on the thigh between his legs in some sort of delirium. It’s relief and torment in one. It’s urgent, it’s imperative, he’s going to die if Crowley keeps going and he’ll die twice if he stops. His hands are full of beautiful curls, there’s stubble dragging against his cheek and chin, the weight and the pressure on top of him is divine  _ (profane) _ .

“Why do these bodies want this?” Aziraphale gasps, trying to share his wonderment, his confusion. “They’re not real, they’re not even us.”

“This is us.” Crowley’s hand fists in his hair, tight enough to border on pain and Aziraphale moans, grinds down harder. “This is us. I want this.  _ Me. _ ”

He’s right, Aziraphale knows he’s right. 

Crowley’s hand is tight in his hair as he descends, pressing open mouthed kisses to his breast through the chemise.

“Let me try something,” Crowley says as he continues downward, kisses sucked into Aziraphale’s belly, his hip, his thigh, his knee, until the demon is on his knees beside the bed. Fingertips drag along Aziraphale’s legs, those infernal kisses hot and wet on his inner thigh. His garters are tugged loose in barely-there touches, first one, then the other, and his stockings rolled down over his feet, pink toes bare in the firelight. 

Aziraphale lets out a breath of relief, of anticipation, of anxiety as Crowley smoothes his hands up his thighs, dragging the chemise with them, holds down his hips and spreads his legs. Hot breath gusts over his sex and he’s suddenly aware of how obscenely wet he feels, his body betraying him. 

A blush steals over his cheeks and down his chest, his already overheated skin somehow growing hotter. Crowley is holding his hips down, his legs open, peering at him over a shock of white curls. 

“I’m s-ah!  _ Ah! _ ” Crowley’s tongue is on him and Aziraphale throws his head back against the mattress _. _ The touch hits him like fireworks and all he can think is that this feels nothing like it looks. Crowley’s tongue is the spark, the fuse, the gunpowder and all the excited friction in him is concentrated to a single point between his legs. He arches off the bed, moaning.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks deliriously. It shouldn’t feel like this. He shouldn’t be reduced to this, moaning and tossing his head back and forth, his hands scrabbling of their own accord at Crowley’s hair. 

Crowley is a true gourmand between his thighs, licking and sucking like he’s trying to devour him. It’s something strange, new, completely overwhelming. He’s been begging for this for nights uncountable, in the brush of fingertips and stolen kisses, every time he pushed things forward this was his unrealised destination .That clever tongue is all over him, the sensation is enormous, he’s everywhere at once. The whole world is hot and wet and when Crowley slips a finger inside him it’s too much, he needs more, he can’t wait, he can’t think or breathe.

“There, right there,” he finds himself gasping when Crowley’s tongue settles on some particularly divine spot. “Like that, please, right there.”

He’s wracked with joy, drunk with it, he can’t stop squirming. There’s something building inside him, sharpening to a point. Crowley’s sliding another finger inside him alongside the first and he never knew he was so sensitive. He’s going to  _ explode. _

He does, or it feels like it, the fuse strikes the tinder, ignites the powder, and he’s pouring over in gold light. 

It seems to go on forever, his thighs trembling and back rolling, his hands pressed against his face as he keens. Crowley keeps at his infernal work, all mouth and hands even as Aziraphale cries out from oversensitivity. It feels too good, better than he can stand. 

When it finally burns out he collapses on the mattress, boneless. 

He doesn’t have the strength to pull Crowley to him, but he comes anyway. The press of his overheated skin against Aziraphale’s is grounding, it’s lovely. He’s relaxed and love drunk and his body feels better than it ever has, lounging half naked on the palatial bed. 

It might be a miracle, or he might just be too far gone to tell up from down, but Crowley is naked when he climbs back onto the bed, still hungry-eyed with searching hands. He pushes the chemise up to Aziraphale’s shoulders and the angel does his best to help him drag the silly thing off. When he’s free of it he melts into Crowley’s chest, skin against skin with a happy sigh. 

“Angel…” Crowley murmurs, dragging his fingertips over Aziraphale’s belly. His skin is all tingling, a ticklish feeling coming over him that makes him giggle.

“That was…”

“Alright?”

The giggles get the better of him again. “A fair bit more than alright. I always thought they were quite silly with all this.”

“They are. Now we are, too.”

Crowley’s adoring gaze is beautiful. His face is soft and trusting, the corner of his mouth twisting fondly upward. 

If they had forever here, who knew what could bloom between them? He’s fallen for the fairytale, the idea that here they are not watched nor accounted for, that they are… He can’t think of it as free. Freedom from God’s love is not freedom. And yet with Crowley golden in the firelight, both of them naked in more than just body, he can’t help but wonder at the shape of this thing they’ve set loose. 

With no heaven and no hell between them, this is where they end up. This is what they want. It’s what he wants. 

“If this is all we ever get, will it be enough?” he asks. 

Crowley laughs, bright and beautiful. He leans down to kiss Aziraphale. “No.”

He’s right. And he’s right to laugh. 

Let him go plant the pocketwatch on the foyer floor, let them have another hundred nights, a thousand, until it’s enough. 

Instead he sinks a hand into Crowley’s silky soft curls and kisses him. There’s something behind it, their laughter fizzling out as Crowley presses him down once more, rolls over him and nudges his thighs apart with his knees so he can settle there. His cock is hard and slick, flushed red with blood as it presses into Aziraphale’s belly and there’s something unexpectedly thrilling about laying his hands flat against Crowley’s back to feel the tendons and strong muscles working there. 

The heat rises in him again, even as his body is still twitching, stray nerves still skittering through his thighs and groin. They’ve warmed the silk and down with their body heat, a pile of pillows props them up as golden candelabras light their way. 

Crowley nuzzles at his jaw. “Can I?”

It’s the first time in all these nights he’s asked permission. Maybe Aziraphale shouldn’t find that enticing but he does. He wants to capture this moment. The vulnerability and the hunger in Crowley’s eyes, the way he is framed and cradled between Aziraphale’s thighs, the adoration, the friendship, red hair on white skin. He has been so many things over the millennia but he has never been safe. 

He nods, sure his voice will fail him. 

It doesn’t feel like it looks. And he’s sure it looks ridiculous. An immodest sprawl of limbs, human bodies sat back on heels or with legs spread wide, nervous glances downwards with clumsy fingers to guide them. Embarrassing little noises and pervasive bodily fluids. It doesn’t feel like it looks. 

It feels like the poems, the songs, the paintings. Crowley touching him so intimately and offering himself in that same intimacy, defenceless with each other. Clumsy fingers and embarrassing noises and then a shift, a push, and they are joined in a way Aziraphale didn’t know he could be joined with another being. 

He can’t do anything but let the air out of his lungs in one long rush. 

Crowley is inside him, his legs are locked around those slim thighs. It’s more than he could have imagined, it’s fullness and closeness he’s never dreamed. The slightest moan escapes from Crowley’s lips and it’s thrilling. 

Aziraphale arches his back, trying to urge his lover deeper. His breath comes hard as though this is some great exertion. He’s hypersensitive, overstimulated, lost in everything that’s happening to him. 

“This is…” Crowley’s voice has a gravelly quality that Aziraphale has never heard before. He looks down, as if obsessive, eyes flashing from Aziraphale’s face to his chest, to down between them, as if there is some answer to be had. 

“Yes.” It comes out as a whine. “Yes, it’s... oh…”

Crowley snaps his hips forward experimentally and Aziraphale arches and opens for him, the sudden spike of pressure in him new and exciting and utterly tawdry. Crowley pushes forward again. 

They’re both finding their place, hands rearranging themselves, for balance, for touching, this new thing a seemingly endless banquet for their bodies. There is always a new place to touch, to kiss, to dig in the fingernails or bite with the teeth. There is always a new moan to be drawn out.

Crowley starts to build up a rhythm and it changes again, the spark and the burn, something Aziraphale can now recognise. 

It’s vulgar. It’s borderline disgusting. The wet slide of it, their inartful sprawl, the sound of skin on skin. It’s inelegant and sticky and it makes Aziraphale feel like an angel being worshipped. It’s flying and it’s kowtowing and his fingers are wet in Crowley’s mouth, his nails digging into that stunning back. 

He adores the softer parts of Crowley. He adores tenderness and kindness. But that’s not all he adores, he thinks, as Crowley’s hand fists in his hair again. Their rocking and grinding is punctuated by sharp bites to his throat and breast, fingers twisting and pinching at his nipples and it’s good in that way that only Crowley has ever been good to him. He leans into all of it and his filthy, formless moans serve as encouragement. 

As they gain confidence and the motion becomes smoother, and harsher, and faster. He’s seen if before, this crass rutting and pounding and grinding. It doesn’t look how it feels. 

Aziraphale knows what’s building inside him. He knows what happens when the pressure reaches its peak when the champagne bottle is uncorked, when the fuse hits the fireworks. 

“More,” he begs, trying to spread his legs wider, get this feeling deeper. “Please, Crowley…”

In a spark of inspiration he wraps a hand around Crowley’s throat, the delicate membranes between his fingers against the raised tendons, and squeezes. The reaction is everything he could have hoped for. Crowley slams his eyes shut, grimacing as if in pain and the  _ noise _ that comes from him. For a moment Aziraphale thinks they’re done, that he’s helped Crowley along too soon. 

But despite the groan and the shudder that he seems to experience with his whole body, Crowley keeps going. He sinks a hand into Aziraphale’s generous hip and holds him steady as he fucks into him harder. 

It’s unspeakable, his body is alight in pleasure seasoned with a hint of pain. He can’t breathe, his heart thunders in his ears and his hips move of their own accord. 

It hits him deep in his belly, radiates outwards, a burning warmth that makes all his muscles clench. He lets out a shout, curling upward involuntarily, gasping for breath as his body floods with fire and light. He must be glowing, he’s floating, he’s effervescent. 

It’s a collision of the two of them, he can both barely register Crowley and not think of anything else. It manifests like a picture show, a gasp in his ear, a hand tightening at his thigh, a jerk of hips, a rush of warmth, all while he is still seizing in pleasure. 

It’s beautiful. It’s beautiful in a way he’d never imagined. They groan together, breathe and press together, staying close as it burns bright and slowly fizzles out. 

Crowley is lying on top of him when he regains feeling in his toes. “Darling,” he says, “I can’t breathe.”

“Y’don’t need to,” Crowley slurs. 

Aziraphale chuckles. “Could I, though?”

Crowley makes a series of grumbling noises and tilts his hips back to separate them before rolling to one side. It leaves Aziraphale strangely bereft. He had rejoiced in their joining, but forgotten they would be two different creatures again, eventually. 

There’s comfort in cuddling up, then, slipping under Crowley’s arm and draping himself across his chest. It’s not the same, but it’s better. When Crowley wraps an arm around him and kisses his forehead, it’s much better. 

It doesn’t make any sense, even now, how that act he’s looked upon a thousand times with patronising amusement could be so different when he’s the one acting on it. He has no explanation, and he doesn’t think he needs one. 

Crowley brushes the hair away from his face, fingers lingering on his cheek. “Look at you.”

“What about me?”

“Knew this would suit you.”

“What, sex?”

“Mm, surprised you haven’t indulged before.”

“Who says I haven’t?”

“Me.”

Aziraphale snorts out a laugh, nuzzling closer, half-asleep. “You’re one to talk.”

Crowley kisses his hair, holds him closer, an aching tenderness to play against his wicked lovemaking. He ever was a creature of contrasts. There’s a deep sadness to him now, as if he knows this will all be gone soon. 

“We’re going to have to pretend this didn’t happen, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says softly. 

“What if I can’t?”

Aziraphale’s heart cracks like a crystal. He doesn’t want to lie, he doesn’t want to hurt. He was always going to, he hadn’t been given much choice in the matter. “Let’s have tonight. Please? Let’s worry about tomorrow when it comes?”

Crowley stares down at him, eyes a lovely gold in the low light, considering. 

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Alright.”

They have hours left to them. There’s a new light cast on all the silly things Aziraphale has seen in the past and they don’t seem so silly anymore. 

So he presses down the knowledge this will end as if it had never happened, the knowledge that somewhere young Madame Aubry is slipping away, and he rolls to straddle Crowley’s hips. If they have to use a little supernatural intervention to make the most of their night then so be it. 

It won’t be this way again, he’s sure of it. He has to bite down on a wish to wake up in this bed tomorrow with Crowley softly dozing on the opposite pillow. That’s not for them. That’s not their lot in life. 

It’s something of a haze after that. A rolling, blurring mess of entangled limbs, of skin in teeth and hands in hair, of Crowley’s hips and Aziraphale’s thighs, hands on his breasts, fingers in his mouth. He drizzles champagne over Crowley’s body for the pleasure of licking it off. They feed each other strawberries and adorn each other with love bites finer than jewelry.

Every time sinks deeper, the satisfaction and the exhaustion become more full-bodied like aging wine. All while the clock ticks down, always in Aziraphale’s peripheral vision. 

It’s eleven when Aziraphale swings his legs over the edge of the bed with a mournful sigh, starts collecting his clothing. It’s a measured ploy, and he expects it when Crowley tugs the last of his stays lacing tight and bends him over the bed, hiking his chemise over his hips. 

Truth be told it’s closing in on midnight when he finally buttons the last of his pearls, his outfit more or less intact. 

He stares at himself in the looking glass, the ugly red bruising on his neck that he wishes he could keep forever. His hair is still loose around his shoulders, and the curl of it over the pink skin makes him look undone, ravished. He supposes he is. 

Maybe he should feel different than before, and he does, he supposes. But not for the reasons the humans talk about. 

In a few short minutes he’s going to have to pretend this never happened. He’s going to un-bite the apple, un-ring the bell. 

Crowley wraps his arms about his waist, looking at the both of them in the mirror. They are a picture, ancient and debauched, black and white, white and red. He kisses the angry red bites on sensitive skin and Aziraphale shivers.

“I’m going to have to get rid of them,” he says. 

“Just the ones you can see,” Crowley says, then smirks into his shoulder. “I gave you plenty more.”

He’s right. There are bites and bruises, a soreness to his hips and deep inside him, a wetness to his inner thighs that is uncomfortable as anything but he won’t miracle it away, not yet. Aziraphale banishes the redness on his decolletage with a wave of his hand. 

Crowley mouths at his neck, eyes hooded, drunk on it, drunk on champagne too, and twists his fingers through the end of Aziraphale’s curls. A sigh, a squeeze, and he tugs the hair upward, the rest of it following obediently as he weaves some demonic miracle to reconstruct the style. He leaves curls loose at Aziraphale’s nape, as is the fashion.

They spend a while at the mirror, in each other's arms. They borrow the accoutrement at the vanity, use the little brushes to touch up each other’s makeup. Aziraphale paints a beauty mark on Crowley’s lip just to make him snap and growl. Crowley gives him the pursed-lip stripe over his mouth and powders the outside of his lips in white. 

“My mask?” Aziraphale asks, when they are satisfied, staring in the mirror at the grooming Crowley has so sweetly done for him. One could almost mistake him for composed. 

Crowley slips out of his grasp and snags the two abandoned masks, offering his own to Aziraphale. 

They fit the masks on each other with gentle touches, trying the ribbons in place. 

The mask feels right now. He’s not anonymous, but he’s hiding, pretending. He’ll walk into that foyer and no one will know he’s the same creature who defiled a guest bedroom on the upper floor, a creature who can moan and gasp and arch in pleasure. It’s a veneer. The pretense of civility. Another layer of clothing when he’d rather be naked. 

“Let’s watch the fireworks, darling,” he says, aching with adoration for his demon, his lover, his dearest friend. 

They do. Crowley cradles him against his chest and they sway softly in the night air. 

When it lights up gold and brilliant Aziraphale is stunned and dazzled and hurting. The clock is ticking down. It’s all going to evaporate like sugar into absinthe. So soon now. Another burst, another minute ticking by, another pain in his heart. 

Crowley is warm at his back, their fingers twisted together over Aziraphale’s belly and he closes his eyes, tries to take it all in one last time. If he can just concentrate hard enough he’ll remember the smell, the feel, the ache. If he can just concentrate hard enough it won’t slip away. 

Crowley places a tender kiss behind his ear, breathes in like he’s trying to remember the scent of this, too. He is looking forward to a lifetime of remembering this night, not knowing it’s all going to be gone soon. 

The little clock on the mantle chimes twelve. 

Any second now.

Aziraphale squeezes the hands in his, tries to hold on. He tries to think of nothing but the warmth at his back and the breath in his hair, but reality isn’t so easily banished. 

He crushes his eyes closed. 

The clock strikes eight and he’s walking into the foyer. 

It’s shock, he thinks, this thing that lets him walk forward calmly. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t wail and beat his chest. His back is cold, his hands clench around nothing. 

The cellist strikes an off note. 

He waits, his body attuned to it now, but there is no puff of feathers, no wave of laughter. The pocket watch is safe in his skirts, Madame Aubry has nothing to fall on. It’s worked. The young lady who is apparently so important simply drifts by in the maze of skirts, laughing at something her companion says. 

It’s done. 

Aziraphale can’t quite believe it. The idea doesn’t stick. 

He turns and walks out of the chateau. 

At the threshold he half-expects the world to tip and turn, to be walking back in again, but it doesn’t. His beaded slipper hits the top stair and he’s out in the cool air, guesting filing in around him. 

He looks up, sees the carriages, the fountain, the stairs that had trapped him for many long nights. 

He takes the steps down in a daze. One, then another, and another, each step expecting to be whisked back into his gilded cage, but he isn’t. He can leave. 

“Aziraphale!”

He whips around at the sound of Crowley’s voice. A terrible anxiety wells up inside him, as if the demon would know, could see right through him. He’s marching down the stairs to accuse Aziraphale of deceit and treachery. 

But it’s not so. His face is relaxed, there’s no beauty mark on his lip. It never happened, though Aziraphale’s thighs are still slick with their lovemaking.

“Crowley,” he greets, eyes flitting down to his own hands, then up to heaven. 

“Leaving so soon?” The demon stares at him, at his lips, at the ruby around his neck. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale chuckles. “I’ve been here for a while now.”

“I didn’t see you.”

_ I’m sure you did. _ He bites his own cheek to stop the hysterical laugh in his throat. “Well. I can’t stay. It was only a small miracle. This isn’t really my sort of place.”

Crowley glances back at the chateau. “Yeah, right, that’s an understatement. But the champagne’s good.”

“I’m sure.”

They stand there in awkward silence for a moment and Aziraphale wishes he could just say something. He wishes he could think of something better to say than  _ I was fellating you half an hour ago, it’s a funny story, really… _

He has to leave.

“I have to…” He gestures over his shoulder.

“Oh, leave off, angel. It’s been thirty years, get a drink with me.”

“It has, it’s been thirty years.” He’s not sure what expression he’s wearing, only that he definitely shouldn't be wearing it, swaying forward, aching with it. “Come to England.”

“England?”

“Yes. England. I’m opening a bookshop. You can help me pick it out or… or something.”

Because he knows how this ends. Everyone is having so much fun tonight. They’ll have fun tomorrow night as well. There will be drinks and games, sweets, dancing, fireworks. But Aziraphale is old, he’s seen how this ends. Soon their lovely hair will be used to drag them into the streets. Their frivolity will be the centrepiece of a prosecution. 

Crowley’s swallows down his disappointment in a wretchedly obvious way. “Right, yeah.”

Aziraphale steps forward, seizes his fingertips between his own. 

“Do. Come to England. Soon?” 

Crowley’s hurting. He’s been here too long. But here alone he can do less damage than here with company. Let him tempt them to gambling and drinking and adultery. They don’t need the extra help. 

Crowley gives him a terrible impression of a smile. “Sure. I’ll come see your new bookshop when you open.”

Aziraphale tries to smile back, and thinks his smile might be just as ghastly as Crowley’s. 

He tugs Crowley forward, just slightly, and drops a kiss to his cheek. 

“Come soon.”

Crowley swallows again and nods, drawing back, seeming to sense their encounter is at an end.

As he makes his way down to his carriage he looks back over his shoulder and sees Crowley watching him leave. 

It should hurt, and it does, but Aziraphale can also feel a weight lifted off his shoulders. All those years that shadow behind the curtain was something real, something beautiful. He wasn’t just imagining it. It wasn’t some hell monster sneaking up on him. 

He sighs into the night, picks up his skirts and takes the rest of the stairs. He’s been trapped here uncountable nights and now he is free, and also not free. 

But wasn’t that always the way of it.

\--

It’s been less than two days since the Apocalypse didn’t happen. 

They’ve dined at the Ritz. Smiled, happy and free. Talked openly, and kindly, and meanly. 

The ruby pendant is still just as it was two hundred and fifty years ago. The handkerchief has turned to dust, the ribbon threadbare with time. The pocket watch has been such a constant companion that he sometimes forgets where he found it. But the pendant is still there, exactly as he’d first been gifted it. 

It should have been worn smooth, he thinks, from how he’s run his thumb across its surface a thousand, thousand times. It’s been hidden in a little drawer in his desk, only to be taken out when a very particular mood strikes him and when there isn’t any  _ (any) _ chance of Crowley dropping by. 

They have a lunch date. The sun is high, the heat of summer on them. It’s nothing like that night in Versailles. It’s relaxed, warm, civilised. Two friends getting Vietnamese food on a Saturday afternoon. 

There’s been something odd between them the last few days. A tension that hasn’t wanted to break. Aziraphale knows what it is. He’s dilly dallied and tried not to know, but sometimes, on those odd days, Versailles still haunts him. 

There’s a solicitude to Crowley’s smile. Their bodies seem to gravitate toward each other. Their little tiffs have a weight of meaning behind them. 

He knows what it looks like with the curtain drawn back. They’re free now. 

Crowley’s almost due to get him for lunch so he rises from his chair with a sigh, returning the pendant to its safe place. 

He looks in the mirror and tugs off his tartan bow tie. It’s his favourite, but he has others. Rather a delightful number of others, really. He picks out one in darkest red, slips it around his neck and ties it neatly. 

The shop bell rings out and he knows who it is. 

When Crowley sees him he grins lazily, his eyes flicking to the bow tie. “Did you dress to match me?”

Aziraphale smiles, he can’t help it, he smiles so widely that his cheeks hurt. They’re free now. Crowley can play cool until the ends of the universe, but he knows, he knows what free looks like. 

He holds out his hand, palm up, offering it to his demon, his lover, his dearest friend. 

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone! What a nice time I've had doing my entry into the Good AUmens event. 
> 
> Special thanks to [darcylindbergh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/pseuds/darcylindbergh) for being a top notch beta. 
> 
> You can catch me on [tumblr. ](https://omgmussimm.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr.](https://omgmussimm.tumblr.com)


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